Sem and the Key That Opened Nothing

In a time that no longer exists—or perhaps not yet—lived Sem, a little girl with watchful eyes and curiosity in her pocket. A dragon was always with her, as big as a dream and silent as a secret. It had no name, because Sem said:
— “True companions are not named. They are felt.”

One day, while walking along the path of forgotten things, Sem stumbled over something hard. It was a key, heavy, ancient, strangely shaped: it seemed half branches and half stars. Engraved on the handle was:
"This key doesn't open doors. But it can open you."

Sem turned it over in his fingers. — “A key that opens nothing? What's the point?”

The Dragon blew softly, making the leaves dance.
— “Perhaps you haven't found the right lock yet.”

Sem tried using it on every door he encountered: abandoned chests, hollow trunks, broken stones. Nothing. The key never turned.

One evening, as the sky faded to purple, they reached a clearing. There was a door there. Just a door. No walls. No house. Just a door standing in the middle of nowhere.

Sem approached. The door was closed, and it trembled slightly, as if it were breathing.

—“There it is,” said the Dragon.

Sem took the key. Her hands were shaking.

—“I'm scared,” she confessed.

—“All right,” replied the Dragon. “Open it anyway.”

The key slipped into the lock. Click.

The door swung open. But behind it was no other place.

There was herself, a child, then a girl, then a woman. There were all the versions of Sem she had hidden, forgotten, left behind for fear of being too fragile, too different, too real.

Sem looked at the Dragon.
—“I didn't know I had all this inside me.”

The Dragon stared at her with his ancient eyes.
—“Now I do.”

Sem closed the door. But he didn't lock it.

And from that day on, the key was no longer needed. Because it had opened what needed to be opened: the courage to be herself.

Moral: There are keys that don't open objects. They open possibilities. And the true treasure is remembering who we are, when we think we're lost.