Lighthouse, Locked
You have no key. The door regards you with the specific smugness of locked doors.
Around your ankles, weaving out of the gorse, comes a thin grey shape — the cat! He looks at you, looks at the keyhole, and gives one short meow of unmistakable criticism before pouring himself through a gap in the stones that you could not fit an arm through, let alone the rest of you.
From inside, muffled: a second meow. Translated from cat: well?
You remember the journal on Edith's desk. The key is where I keep the tea. It always is.