The key was under the flowerpot.

It had been there for eleven years.

Her mother had put it there after the first time she forgot her keys.

“Don’t tell anyone,” Amma said.

“Then how will I know?”

“You will know.”

It became one of those family things nobody discussed.

Under the flowerpot.

Third floor.

Left side.

Not the big pot. The small one.

Years later, her mother moved away.

The apartment was hers now.

She changed the lock.

But she kept the old key.

One evening, her daughter called.

“I’m outside.”

“I’ll open.”

“No. Don’t come down.”

“Why?”

“I found the key.”

She looked at the flowerpot.

The small one.

Exactly where it had always been.

Her daughter came upstairs.

“You knew it was there?”

“Of course.”

“Then why did you call me?”

The girl held up the key.

“Because I wanted to use Amma’s key.”

They stood quietly at the door.

Then she opened it.

The lock clicked.

For a second, it felt like the old apartment.

Her mother calling from the kitchen.

The pressure cooker.

Someone looking for the newspaper.

A pair of slippers near the door.

Nothing was there.

But the key still worked.

She put it back under the flowerpot.

Her daughter looked surprised.

“Why?”

She smiled.

“Someone may need it.”

The next morning, she gave the spare key to her daughter.

The flowerpot stayed empty.

Some family traditions don’t disappear.

They simply change hands.

Read this when a small ordinary thing suddenly brings someone back to you.