“If you unlock it, you’ll see where Mom lives,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the rain.
My heart pounded, each beat echoing in my ears like a drum. I reached into my pocket, pulling out a set of bobby pins I had kept for a craft project. I slipped one into the keyhole, feeling the metal
click.
The lock gave way with a soft, reluctant sound. The door creaked open, the wood groaning as if waking from a long sleep.
A pungent smell hit me, sharp and metallic, mingling with the stale scent of damp earth. It was a smell that reminded me of old books left in a basement for years, of wet wool, of something that had been hidden for a long time.
What Lay Beneath
The basement was a low, cramped space, the ceiling barely clearing my head. Boxes were stacked haphazardly
against the walls, old furniture covered in dust sheets, and in the corner, a small wooden chest sat open, its lid ajar.
Grace stepped forward without hesitation, her eyes bright. “This is where Mom kept her things,” she said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
