” Lucy yanked him into the hidden door to Room 109, a door to the backstage that looked like the entrance to a broom closet. “I am afraid,” she said, “that he must have a skeleton key to these rooms. “I will MAKE you love me! Until he has faded—faded into a memory. “More coffee, hon?” She held her hand over the cup. I never intended it to be anything but a short story, for I had never completed even the shortest of stories unless forced to in grammar school. Gazing into each other's eyes with new-found rapture, neither observed the sudden appearance in the doorway of an elderly woman in travel-stained linen.
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