“Some doors don’t open with force. They wait for the right hands, at the right time.”
bb grey
Yard sales weren’t Robert’s thing. Not even close.
But Beth—Beth thrived on them.
“Look at this! A whole world of treasures just waiting to be rescued!” she’d say, grinning like she’d found buried gold in a box marked Free.
Robert, ever the reluctant accomplice, just smiled and drove. He’d long accepted that her joy in these things was enough to make him play along.
The truck’s tires hissed against dew-slick asphalt as they cruised a well-heeled neighborhood in Boston’s historic district. Memorial Day weekend had drawn out locals like ants from an anthill, each front lawn a curated exhibit of discarded pasts and questionable future purchases.
“There! There! Park there!” Beth slapped the dashboard like she was summoning magic.
Rob slowed, glanced at the spot, and—just to mess with her—rolled a few feet past it.
Beth blinked. “No, no—” she started, until she caught the smirk on his face. “You jerk!” she laughed, punching his shoulder.
He eased the truck back into the spot and exaggerated every step—clutch, brake, parking lever—until Beth, already halfway out of the cab, chirped, “Don’t forget the brake!”
“This one?” Rob pressed the lever with theatrical flair. They shared a look, the kind that only forms after years of shared glances and inside jokes.
Beth kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks for coming, treasure-hunter.”
“Ditto,” he muttered, watching her sprint toward a garage exploding with lamps, linens, and nostalgia.
Rob took his time. His approach was slower, quieter—a half-interested mosey that disguised his enjoyment. He called it “playing the long game,” pretending to browse while scanning for something real. Something odd. Forgotten.
An old level caught his eye—wood worn smooth by a thousand calloused hands, brass edges dulled with time. But then, just beyond it, on a folding table weighed down by hardcovers and dust, something else called to him.
A book.
Its green cover was faded almost to grey, but the gold-embossed border still shimmered faintly in the morning light. He picked it up. Heavy. Solid. A relic.
The spine read Stevenson. He flipped to the title page. Pages crackled like dry leaves. The book hadn’t been opened in years. Maybe decades.
Beth’s voice echoed behind him—negotiating, pleading, probably charming an old couple into shaving ten bucks off a Tiffany-knockoff lamp. Rob smiled and turned back to the book.
He flipped toward the back.
Then stopped.
Inside the rear cover, taped with yellowed Scotch tape, was a small envelope. It was childlike in its construction, its crooked folds and uneven edges made with impatient hands. In shaky pencil, someone had scrawled across the front:
Not yet.
Rob raised a brow. Curious, he pressed his fingers along the envelope. A shape inside. Solid. Jagged. A key.
He closed the book carefully and placed it back on the table, tucking it under a random paperback to mark his claim.
“Funny, my son used to love that one,” came a voice behind him. A soft rasp, like a breeze through dry curtains.
He turned. A tiny woman in a floral apron and faded jeans stood before him, her eyes clear and kind. “That green one. Been forty years or more, I’d guess.”
“This one?” Rob asked, lifting it again.
She nodded. “Two bucks. Take it.”
“Deal,” he said quickly, clamping the book shut like it might whisper secrets if he didn’t.
He patted his jeans, searching empty pockets. “I’ll be right back.”
Beth was cradling her prize like a newborn when he approached. “Find something?” she asked.
“Kinda,” Rob said. “Got two bucks?”
She handed him the crumpled bills. “Let me see—”
“Just a sec,” he said, pulling the book away gently.
Beth’s smile faltered, just slightly.
He was already walking back.
The woman took the money with a grin and a wink. “Enjoy,” she said. “Strange little book, that one.”
Rob met Beth halfway down the drive. “Let’s go,” he said, the book tucked protectively under his arm. “I found treasure.”
As they walked toward the truck, Beth looked at him sideways.
“You’re acting weird,” she said.
Rob just smiled.
In his hand, the book felt heavier now—like it knew he was finally ready to open what had long been waiting inside.
Didn’t like todays daily prompt so I came up with my own:
You find an old key taped inside the back cover of a book you used to read to your children. You don’t remember putting it there. On the inside of the key, in tiny script, are the words: “Not yet.” Write about what the key unlocks—literally or metaphorically—and why now might finally be the right time.
BB Grey--musings 
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