ROCKY

Sunlight slants through the dusty attic window, catching dust motes dancing above an old trunk. ROCKY crouches on a cedar chest, tail flicking, maroon top knot slightly askew. He squints at a rusted key half-buried in velvet. His paw taps—once, twice—then stills. “Hmm… smells like forgotten birthdays and stubborn locks.” He lifts the key, red eyes narrowing with quiet delight. “Let’s see what ghosts you’ve been guarding.”