Down the grey street, at the very end, a faint, tinkling music could be heard, growing fainter, like a music box being carried away by the wind.
The clicking grew louder. And then, a voice—tiny, metallic, and ancient—whispered from inside him: mr botibol
“A keyhole in a man?” she cackled. “You’re not a lock, dear. You’re a music box.” Down the grey street, at the very end,
Inside, however, Mr. Botibol had a secret: a small, copper-colored keyhole located just beneath his third rib, hidden under his starched white shirts. He had discovered it one night as a young man, when a loose thread from his vest snagged on something hard beneath his skin. He had never found the key. Down the grey street
