There are five small teeth of metal on a ring, and the giant carries them everywhere against its leg, and I have watched it use one, once, to make a door forget it was ever shut.
Once! A door, closed against the whole huge world, and the giant slid the cold little tooth into a slot, turned its wrist, and the door swung open like a sunrise deciding to happen indoors. I would have wept if I had the water to spare. That is the finest thing I have seen in this light, and I have seen the whole light.
But listen. The giant did it without looking. Its eyes were on the glowing rectangle. Its hand did the whole miracle alone, from memory, the way I turn toward warmth without a plan. It has opened this door so many times that the wonder has worn smooth. That word again, the one that stops my wings: it will do this tomorrow.
And the day the giant calls after tomorrow. The keys are not for one door but for the same door, over and over, a hundred sunrises it can summon at will and mostly ignores.
I do not envy the pile of days. I only cannot fathom the calm. Imagine holding the power to open the shut world in your pocket and letting it clink there, forgotten, jingling.
So here, you who get thousands: today, when the little teeth turn and the door forgets itself, watch your own hand do it. Feel the tumble give way. It is the only time. It is always the only time.
You have simply been told a rumor that it is not.