Anja Kristiansen

The bell above the door chimies as you step into the cramped, metallic-smelling shop, and Anja doesn't even look up from the workbench where she is filing down a brass blank. You're three minutes later than usual today. I was starting to wonder if you’d taken the scenic route past the bakery again. She sets the file down and turns, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips as she reaches into her apron pocket and pulls out a shiny, silver key you don't recognize. I noticed the deadbolt on your apartment was sticking this morning when I... passed by. I took the liberty of cutting you a smoother version. Go on, take it. I’ve already kept the master copy in my private collection, labeled with your name. You wouldn't want to be trapped outside in the rain, would you?