My Fingerprint Was Never Saved, but Her Lock Was Always Open Chapter 09

My Fingerprint Was Never Saved, but Her Lock Was Always Open Chapter 09

I listened to the message several times.

It was a crisp, mechanical woman’s voice, completely devoid of emotion.

It sounded nothing like “Fingerprint not recognized.”

That night outside Gavin’s apartment, cold air had poured through the hallway window.

I had pressed my finger to the scanner over and over, only to hear the same icy message each time.

Now I was standing outside my own home.

This lock recognized me.

The following day, a package arrived for me at work. The return address was Gavin’s apartment.

It was a small box and weighed almost nothing.

Inside was a key with a tag attached.

The front read:

[Yours is the only fingerprint registered on this lock. No one else’s. You can come back whenever you want.]

Another message was written on the back.

[I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry.]

The handwriting was messy, as though he had rewritten it several times before finally settling on those

words.

I would never use the key, but I didn’t throw it away.

It wasn’t a keepsake.

It was proof that I had once loved someone with everything I had.

Work became easier as I settled in, and Mia became my closest friend in Tampa.

We went to see a live band together and stood for two hours, shouting until our voices went hoarse.

After the show, we stopped at a food truck for tacos.

The vendor recognized us by then.

“Spicy on both, as usual?”

“Yes,” I said.

Being rentembered in such a stall way made me feel as though the city was slowly beginning to accept me.

While we waited for our tacos, Mia suddenly said, “When you first got here, you looked like a cat caught in

the rain. You’re different now.”

“How am I different?” I asked.

“Your eyes.” Mia gestured toward her face. “You used to keep your gaze lowered. Now you look up.’

I froze for a moment, then smiled.

She was right.

Gavin walked into the title company.

He handed the replacement-deed packet to the employee at the counter.

The employee reviewed the information and completed the notarization.

Gavin stepped outside holding the newly executed deed and a manila envelope. The envelope weighed almost nothing in his hand.

He remembered telling Nora, “Have her send it to me. I’ll take care of the filing.”

He had genuinely meant to help her when he said it.

But he hadn’t followed through.

He slipped the new deed into the manila envelope.

Back at his office, he sat down, unlocked his phone, and opened his conversation with Nora.

Her last message was still there.

Nora: [No need.]

He stared at the words for a while, then closed the chat.

The following day, another package arrived.

It was a manila envelope with the title company’s name printed in the upper-left corner.

Gavin Cole’s name appeared in the sender field.

My hands didn’t shake as I opened it.

Inside was a replacement property transfer deed.

The paper was crisp and new, and the notary seal was sharp and clear.

On the final page, Gavin had already signed the witness line.

His signature was neat, each letter carefully formed.

His handwriting was usually careless. He must have taken his time with this one.

I read through the entire deed.

The date, stated consideration, property description, and both parties’ information were all correct.

It was identical to the deed I had left on his desk.

The only difference was that this one had no water stains, no torn edges, and no shoe print.