That evening I took the brass key from the table and placed it inside a small envelope. I wrote Donovan's name on the front but did not seal it. I considered driving to his apartment and slipping it under the door, imagining that he might open the door before I left and we could finally have the conversation I wanted. Then I heard his text again in my mind: I need space. The thought of appearing at his home after he had asked me not to call was another version of refusing to hear him.
I left the envelope on my desk instead. It remained there through Thursday and Friday, while the apartment filled with all the little absences I had never had to notice. Donovan did not call to ask what we were making for dinner. There was no message about a strange sign he had seen on the way to work, no photograph of his father proudly standing beside an overgrown tomato plant. I kept reaching for my phone whenever something interesting happened, then remembering I no longer had a person I could automatically send it to.
On Friday afternoon a number I did not recognize appeared on my screen. I answered cautiously and heard a woman's voice introduce herself as Elena Alvarez, the owner of the Birch Street duplex. She sounded older, with the practical warmth of someone accustomed to dealing with tenants and contractors. She explained that Donovan had given her my number because I had once expressed interest in the upstairs apartment, but that he had asked her not to put me under any pressure. She wanted to know whether I still intended to view it or whether she should proceed with other applicants.
I closed my eyes. "Please offer it to someone else," I said. "I'm sorry for the trouble." Elena paused, and I wondered how much she knew. "No trouble," she answered. "He helped me replace a stair tread last spring. I trusted him with a key to show you the place, that's all. He called this morning to say the circumstances had changed."
I asked whether I could return the key directly to her. She said she would be glad to collect it from my office or receive it by mail, and I chose the mail because it would keep me from driving past the building to stare at what I had lost. Before hanging up, Elena said, "For what it's worth, he was very careful not to make plans on your behalf. He said it would only be a home if you both wanted it." I thanked her and sat at my desk with the receiver still in my hand after the call ended.
On Saturday I mailed the key with the blue tag attached. I took a photograph before sealing the envelope, not because I intended to post it but because I could not bear the thought that such a small piece of evidence might disappear entirely. Then I put the photograph in a hidden folder on my phone and walked to the post office. As I dropped the envelope into the outgoing-mail slot, I felt a strange, adult kind of loss: doing the right thing in the present did not undo the wrong thing I had done earlier.