Missing House Key Past Sundown

Missing House Key Past Sundown

I was walking back from the grocery store at dusk, carrying heavy paper bags, but the walk took forever. My street felt like it had been stretched out, flanked by ancient, crumbling stone walls covered in black ivy instead of my neighbors' front lawns. The sky had this bruised, sickly purple color that made everything look decayed. I ran into Marcus, who was an old coworker from retail, but he was wearing heavy iron mail under an apron and casually sharpening a curved blade on the sidewalk. He asked if I had made it inside before sundown, acting like it was totally routine, but his eyes were milky and unblinking. I got this sickening rush of dread realizing my house key was missing from my ring. I kept checking my pockets, but all I pulled out were handfuls of cold, damp soil. I started half-sprinting toward my porch, but my legs felt like lead, and the sun was dropping behind the rooflines way too fast.