Every morning, Michael found a small brass key on his doorstep. He assumed it belonged to a neighbor. On the seventh day, curiosity won. He picked it up and noticed a tiny number engraved on it: 17. Michael searched his apartment building. There was only one door numbered 17. It belonged to an elderly man who had died months earlier. Michael knocked anyway. The door unexpectedly opened. Inside was an empty room except for a wooden box. The key fitted the lock. Inside, Michael found dozens of letters addressed to him. The first letter began: “Dear Michael, you probably don't remember me.” He did. The writer was his childhood teacher. The final letter said: “You once told me you wanted to become a writer. Don't let adulthood convince you that your dreams were childish.” Michael sat on the floor and cried. Some keys don't open doors. They open forgotten dreams.