His jailers bound him in wood, stone, and plaster, chaining him to the house. Once he had strode across the universe, feeling eternal winds upon his face and hearing the songs of atoms, but now he was a prisoner.
Visitors came to the house, but he did not know any of them. Their faces were strange and he found he could not see them if he looked at them from the side. Still he ate with them, which was only polite.
In the garden, he piled rocks.
It was only a matter of finding the right shape.
The right key.
Word Count: 100
This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and Sandra Cook for providing the prompt photo!