“Hey!” I call out, “What’s this for?” There was no response, just silence. Even as I strained my ears to hear where he went, all I could hear was the wind blowing outside. The elevator got to my floor and rang out, startling me enough to flinch away from it. I shook my head and stepped into the elevator,  pressing the button to the parking garage as I took another look at the locket.
	The necklace itself felt heavy in my hand as I fondled it. I assume the chain is made of real gold since it felt like the old coins my grandfather used to have, but I have no real way of knowing for sure. Opening the locket again, I look at the clover pressed into one of the frames. In the harsh florescent light I could tell for certain that it did have four leaves, and quite old from the browning at the corners of the window. It had this odd sheen to it that made me think that it was somehow coated in something that would keep it preserved in some fashion, though how it was done and why I couldn’t tell without breaking it.
	In the other pane was what looked like one of those old photos in textbooks about the Wild West, a sepia toned and stone faced maiden dressed in a lace ridden sundress with the bonnet. She was sitting on something covered up with the dress with her hands folded neatly in her lap. Underneath her hands, written in an elegant and probably feminine cursive, was a name. “Sarah Yorksure” was what it read after squinting at it for a few minutes.
	The elevator stopped with a lurch, prompting me to quickly shove the locket in my pocket after closing it back up. The doors slid open to show that no one was there, causing me to breathe a sigh of relief as some of my darker fears over the strange encounter with the janitor. I walked over to my car, unlocking it as I went. It wasn’t until I got right next to it that I noticed something was wrong. The ground around it was covered in shattered safety glass, all of the windows were broken out, and the tires were burst open. For a moment I thought that some dumb teen had decided to go berserk on my car, but I realized that it couldn’t be that because all of the glass was outside of the car. I bent down to look at the tires and furrowed my brow in confusion; when I was 16 I decided to, for some reason, over-pump the tires of my dad’s car after reading about how race car tires were filled to burst for better handling or something, I tried that but didn’t know how far to go so I just kept going until I heard a loud bang and woke up in a hospital bed.
	“That isn’t yours.” I hear a rumbling voice say behind me. I stand up and whirl around to see who was talking, only to see another janitor.
	“What? I actually just paid this off so it is mine, thankyouverymuch.” The janitor continued to stare at me.
	“Just because something is given doesn’t make it yours,” he says as his arm slowly rises and his weathered hand points to the pocket I have the locket in.