The backyard was still and cold, and the air smelled of fallen oak leaves and damp pine needles.

My grandmother’s rosebushes stood in neat rows along the wooden fence, their brown canes pruned back for the coming winter.

I sat down on the wide wooden bench on the porch and set my warm mug of coffee on the cedar table beside me.

The silver ring I had inherited from my grandmother felt smooth against my skin.

I twisted it around my thumb once and rested my hand flat on my knee.

The yellow porch light clicked on automatically overhead, casting a warm circle of light over the freshly painted wooden steps.

I took the heavy brass key ring out of my coat pocket and laid it flat on the wooden table beside my coffee mug.

“The keys belonged to me all along,” I said to the quiet yard.

I picked up my coffee mug in both hands, took a slow sip, and looked out at the quiet autumn garden as the first evening stars appeared over the roofline.