It’s late in the evening when you spot it—a small, rusted key lying alone on the sidewalk. You pause, bending down to pick it up, turning it over in your hand. The design is intricate, far too ornate for something so carelessly lost. A faint engraving on its handle reads, “Unlock what’s meant to be.”

As you examine it, you notice a scrap of paper tied to the bow of the key with a fraying string. The paper is damp from the evening dew but still legible: “The door beneath the ivy.”

You frown, looking around. Across the street, an old stone building catches your eye, its entrance obscured by a heavy curtain of ivy cascading down the wall. The key seems to pulse faintly in your hand, as if urging you forward. Your curiosity takes over. Could it be for that door? And what might be waiting on the other side?