Carrie pinched the stem of the broken key, the nub sticking out a little way. To her surprise, it turned easily, the lid springing open with a rusty click. A broken ballerina with half her skirt missing and the rest of it sadly torn, face obliterated with age and grime, twisted drunkenly on her platform. One little arm swung from a dislocated shoulder, and all the paint had been worn away. It was playing Three Blind Mice, flat and out of tune. (Yet another thing to feel sorry for.)
