You're walking down a street.
You come across a set of abandoned keys.
Old and weathered, the rust stains your hand as you pick them up.
A battered metal tag hangs limply from the ring.
Faintly etched in spidery letters, two words.
You look around. No one is there. No one sees you.
No one sees you as you pocket the keys.
The keys to Placid House.
The old asylum.
This term we shoot a short film.
At Placid House.