Vlatia reached tremulously for the keys; destination secured, groping her pocket to make sure that they were all still there. Upon recognizing the familiar texture of the cross on the keychain, she counted each key individually all the while keeping her forward pace. Five keys. Just like the last three times she’s counted.
Vlatia knew better than to take them at this hour, but she just couldn’t help herself, seeking to discover with her unique in trepidation that which was just around the bend and down that back alleyway. That elusive alleyway. The road perpetually bathed in darkness. What did it hold? She had to know; but first, she had to get past the gate, over the fence and then…
“What are you doing out at this hour, Vlati?”
It was Jorgenson, a harmless old man with an accent that seemed to make his lounge twist in a way almost as unmanageable as the tangled and matted hair in his beard. A flask appeared from within his coat and a fast swig accompanied his one good eye focused on Vlatia.
“Evening, Jorgenson. I do believe I must be going…” she said with a tucked head and arms wrapped around her prize. She rehearsed her path once more “I must go past the gate using the silver key, surmounting the fence…”
“Now, now, that’s no way to treat such an old family friend!” he chuckled as he roped her in closer. Despite his age, Jorgenson had a large stature about him, accompanied with the strength evident of one who has worked as a farmhand for the majority of his waking life.
As Jorgenson pulled her in closer, the keys fell out of her hands and into the dimly lit street. Vlatia’s mind raced. She now had a witness to her crime.
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