He handed me a tiny wooden box. It was made from cedar that had been stained a dark colour. There was a tiny golden lock inlaid into one of the sides. The box fit within the palm of my hand. I looked at him, took his eyes into me. “What is it?” I asked.

“I gave you the keys when we first met, remember?” His blue and grey eyes swirled, or seemed to. “The ones you’re wearing?”

I looked at him quizzically and pulled out the chain from underneath my shirt. He had given them to me after we had first started dating. They were light and slim-I had thought they were charms. I liked keys. I hadn’t given them any significance at the time except that they were beautiful.

The key on the right was a dark iron, the centre one a bright metal that he said was silver but I thought must be platinum. It never tarnished, never dulled. The third key was made of a darker metal, almost black, with a sheen that recalled midnight. He said it was obsidian but I knew that it wasn’t that. Obsidian wasn’t a metal.

He nodded and took the pendant in his right hand and took my right hand holding the tiny box and raised it up to the keys that rested in his palm. “See?” He said. “They go together.”

Looking down, I saw that what I thought was scrollwork on either side were two more holes. Three keys, three keyholes; I looked up at him. “Do you want me to open it?” I was normally so good with my words but they lost me then.

“Duh.”

I swallowed thickly, on a precipice. I inserted the keys and clicked each one. When I opened the box, there was light.

He handed me a tiny wooden box. It was made from cedar that had been stained a dark colour. There was a tiny golden lock inlaid into one of the sides. The box fit within the palm of my hand. I looked at him, took his eyes into me. “What is it?” I asked.

“I gave you the keys when we first met, remember?” His blue and grey eyes swirled, or seemed to. “The ones you’re wearing?”

I looked at him quizzically and pulled out the chain from underneath my shirt. He had given them to me after we had first started dating. They were light and slim-I had thought they were charms. I liked keys. I hadn’t given them any significance at the time except that they were beautiful.

The key on the right was a dark iron, the centre one a bright metal that he said was silver but I thought must be platinum. It never tarnished, never dulled. The third key was made of a darker metal, almost black, with a sheen that recalled midnight. He said it was obsidian but I knew that it wasn’t that. Obsidian wasn’t a metal.

He nodded and took the pendant in his right hand and took my right hand holding the tiny box and raised it up to the keys that rested in his palm. “See?” He said. “They go together.”

Looking down, I saw that what I thought was scrollwork on either side were two more holes. Three keys, three keyholes; I looked up at him. “Do you want me to open it?” I was normally so good with my words but they lost me then.

“Duh.”

I swallowed thickly, on a precipice. I inserted the keys and clicked each one. When I opened the box, there was light.

“Oh, tis a grievous condition.” the Healer woman said. She pushed a lock of white hair away from her face.

“It happens when children are slow, as they often are. There are those that call it Snail Face, but I prefer the more accurate term of Laziness.”

She huffed and motioned at the child’s face. “You see it all the time. Children not moving for days or weeks and the snails come and make their home upon the child.”

She leaned in to speak to me, whispering to me softly. “There is but one cure. You must take this.” Here, she handed me a satchel full of a glittering powder.

Upon further inspection, the powder turned out to be pepper. “What am I to do with this?” I asked.

“You are to sprinkle this on the child’s feet so that they get itchy. The child will want to dance and dance, and the snails, no longer content to live on a moving host, will vacate straight away.”

Here she blushed and handed me a handkerchief. “You may need this. They do tend to leave a little snail poop behind when they are shocked by movement.” She huffed out a breath.

“Dirty little blighters.” She spat out a lump of spit. “You see ‘em all the time in all the dirtier of houses.”

I took a moment to consider her rudeness. First in the act of spitting on my floor, which was quite intolerable. Then the act of calling my house dirty. I wondered whether her words were meant as an insult or merely as a frank comment. I took her words as the latter.

“Why you dirty little trollop.” I kept the smile on my face. “It’s so nice of you to drop by.”

She smiled back. “Oh yes, fun.”

Sometimes at the end of the day, when she got home from work, she would not turn the lights on. She would let the day gradually darken into the evening which would shift into night.

She was up early in the day, the sun rising with her as she walked to work. The darkness followed her home when she finished her day. She had a little moment of sun, shining through her apartment windows like a beacon, before the shadows started to creep along her floor.

As she would prepare for the next day and then sit to read her book, she would wonder at the fact that she lived in the shadows, but time still remained eternal. She existed in darkness except for one true moment in her day.

She began her day in almost complete darkness, the lights outside lit her way as did the lights of the buildings. They kept the darkness at bay. She remained indoors for the day; there was just too much work to do.

However, it was as she was making her way through her building to get to her office that the sun chose to rise each day. This was her time.

It always happened at the same moment: she was walking across a glass bridge, windows on either side of her. She would stand there for a moment and look at the sun, rising on the water. Pink sky in morning, a sailors warning, pink sky at night, a sailor’s delight, she would think.

At home, after work, she kept the lights off and let the shadows linger, except for one light to read by. She would let the light fade. That one moment of brightness, that pure joy, was enough for her.

Both the light and the shadow brought comfort.

Sometimes at the end of the day, when she got home from work, she would not turn the lights on. She would let the day gradually darken into the evening which would shift into night.

She was up early in the day too, that the sun rose with her as she walked to work-and the darkness followed her home when she finished her day. She had a little moment of sun, shining through her apartment windows like a beacon, before the shadows started to creep along her floor.

As she would prepare for the next day and then sit with her book in her chair and read, that the passage of her day existed in shadows, but time still remained eternal. She went to work with the darkness and it would begin to waken after she had started her day.

She would hold the brightness inside of her for the day, the sight of that sunrise every morning, She began her day in almost complete darkness, the lights outside lit her way as did the lights of the buildings. It was as she was making her way through her building to get to her office that the sun chose to rise each day.

It always happened at the same moment: she was walking across a glass bridge, windows on either side of her. She would stand there for a moment and look out at the sun over the water. Pink sky in morning, a sailors warning, pink sky at night, a sailor’s delight, she would think.

At home, after work, she kept the lights off, let the shadows linger, except for one light to read by. She would let the light fade. That one moment of brightness, that pure joy, was enough for her.

It filled her for the day.