The grate stared up at me, its rusted bars a lattice of secrets woven into the floor. The key rested in my hand, its 13 glinting faintly under the neon's faltering light, a promise—or a threat. The dripping pulsed below, a heartbeat threading through the dark, and in its cadence, I felt her. Raisa. Closer now, her presence a shadow brushing my skin. The scrap of paper—Don't forget me, Lukas—lay crumpled beside the hole, her words a thread I couldn't let snap.
I knelt, the concrete cold against my knees, and pressed my ear to the grate. The sound sharpened—water, yes, but something else: a faint scrape, rhythmic, like nails on stone. My breath caught. Was it her? I whispered her name, "Raisa," soft as a prayer, and the dripping paused—just a moment—before resuming, as if listening. My chest ached, hope and dread twisting together, a knot I couldn't untie.
The speaker had said the key fit more than one lock. I'd tried the door, the box—now this. I traced the grate's edges with my fingers, searching for a slot, a seam. The bars were warped, bent by time or force, and at the center, where the 13 was etched, the metal dipped—a shallow hollow, rough with rust. I pressed the key there, twisting, scraping, my hands slick with sweat and the blood from my torn nails. It caught—barely—but didn't turn.
"Come on," I muttered, my voice a thin thread in the silence. The neon flickered, casting the room in stuttering pulses, and the shadows danced, urging me on. I leaned harder, the key bending under the pressure, its teeth grinding against the metal. A click—small, sharp—echoed up from the grate, and the bars shuddered. I froze, heart pounding, then pulled. The grate lifted, hinged at one side, groaning as it swung open.
Dust billowed, stinging my eyes, and a rush of cold air rose from below—damp, heavy with the scent of earth and decay. I peered into the hole, the darkness swallowing the light, but there—a glint, faint and silver, flickered in the depths. Stairs. Narrow, spiraling down, their edges worn and slick with moss or mold. My throat tightened. Down there. She was down there.
I clutched the necklace, the heart pendant pressing into my palm, and saw her again—her face against glass, her hands pounding, her voice lost to the rain. "I'm coming," I said, louder now, a vow to her, to myself. The speaker crackled, its hum a low murmur, but no words came. It watched, silent, as I swung my legs into the hole, the first step icy beneath my foot.
The stairs descended steeply, a tunnel carved from shadow. I gripped the key in one hand, the necklace in the other, and moved down, step by step, the dripping growing louder, closer. The walls pressed in, rough stone brushing my shoulders, and the air thickened, tasting of rust and forgotten things. My foot slipped on the fifth step, and I caught myself, heart lurching. I couldn't see the bottom—just the faint gleam of water, pooling somewhere below.
A sound—soft, almost a sigh—drifted up. I stopped, breath held. "Raisa?" I called, my voice echoing, fracturing against the stone. No answer, but the sigh came again, faint as a memory. I moved faster, the stairs spiraling tighter, the 13 on the key a weight pulling me down. Thirteen steps, maybe—I counted as I went, seven, eight, nine—until my foot hit something solid. A landing, small and wet, the floor uneven beneath me.
The neon's light didn't reach here, but a faint glow seeped from ahead—a crack in the wall, thin and jagged, spilling a pale, watery shimmer. I stepped closer, the dripping now a steady chorus, and saw it: a door. Not steel, but wood, swollen and warped, its surface scarred with scratches—claw marks, frantic, desperate. My stomach twisted. Her hands flashed in my mind, pounding, pleading.
I pressed the key to the lock, a rusted slot barely holding together. It fit—snug, reluctant—but turned with a groan, the mechanism grinding as if waking from sleep. The door shuddered, then gave, swinging inward with a creak that pierced the silence. Water trickled out, soaking my feet, cold as death. I stepped through, the necklace trembling in my grip, and the glow brightened—a single bulb, dim and flickering, hung from a chain in a low, cavernous room.
The walls wept, streaked with moss and grime, and the floor sloped toward a pool—black, still, its surface a mirror for the light. In the center, half-submerged, stood a chair—old, wooden, its legs rotting. And on it, a shape. A figure. My heart stopped. "Raisa," I breathed, stumbling forward, the water splashing around my ankles.
She didn't move. Her hair—long, dark—spilled over her face, hiding her eyes, her hands resting limp in her lap. A chain looped around her wrists, rusted but taut, anchoring her to the chair. I reached her, falling to my knees, the water soaking me through. "Raisa," I said again, louder, my voice breaking as I touched her arm. Cold. Too cold.
The speaker's voice echoed down, faint but clear: "You found her." I froze, my hand on her skin, and the bulb flickered, casting her face in shadow. Was she breathing? I couldn't tell. I shook her gently, her head lolling, and a sound—soft, ragged—escaped her lips. A breath? A moan? I couldn't be sure.
"Raisa, please," I begged, fumbling with the chain, the key useless now. The water rose, lapping at her knees, at mine, and the dripping swelled, a roar in my ears. The speaker hummed again: "Too late, Lukas." My chest caved. Too late? No—she was here, I'd found her—I wouldn't leave her again.
But her face stayed hidden, and the light dimmed, leaving only her shadow and mine, trembling in the dark.The grate stared up at me, its rusted bars a lattice of secrets woven into the floor. The key rested in my hand, its 13 glinting faintly under the neon's faltering light, a promise—or a threat. The dripping pulsed below, a heartbeat threading through the dark, and in its cadence, I felt her. Raisa. Closer now, her presence a shadow brushing my skin. The scrap of paper—Don't forget me, Lukas—lay crumpled beside the hole, her words a thread I couldn't let snap.
I knelt, the concrete cold against my knees, and pressed my ear to the grate. The sound sharpened—water, yes, but something else: a faint scrape, rhythmic, like nails on stone. My breath caught. Was it her? I whispered her name, "Raisa," soft as a prayer, and the dripping paused—just a moment—before resuming, as if listening. My chest ached, hope and dread twisting together, a knot I couldn't untie.
The speaker had said the key fit more than one lock. I'd tried the door, the box—now this. I traced the grate's edges with my fingers, searching for a slot, a seam. The bars were warped, bent by time or force, and at the center, where the 13 was etched, the metal dipped—a shallow hollow, rough with rust. I pressed the key there, twisting, scraping, my hands slick with sweat and the blood from my torn nails. It caught—barely—but didn't turn.
"Come on," I muttered, my voice a thin thread in the silence. The neon flickered, casting the room in stuttering pulses, and the shadows danced, urging me on. I leaned harder, the key bending under the pressure, its teeth grinding against the metal. A click—small, sharp—echoed up from the grate, and the bars shuddered. I froze, heart pounding, then pulled. The grate lifted, hinged at one side, groaning as it swung open.
Dust billowed, stinging my eyes, and a rush of cold air rose from below—damp, heavy with the scent of earth and decay. I peered into the hole, the darkness swallowing the light, but there—a glint, faint and silver, flickered in the depths. Stairs. Narrow, spiraling down, their edges worn and slick with moss or mold. My throat tightened. Down there. She was down there.
I clutched the necklace, the heart pendant pressing into my palm, and saw her again—her face against glass, her hands pounding, her voice lost to the rain. "I'm coming," I said, louder now, a vow to her, to myself. The speaker crackled, its hum a low murmur, but no words came. It watched, silent, as I swung my legs into the hole, the first step icy beneath my foot.
The stairs descended steeply, a tunnel carved from shadow. I gripped the key in one hand, the necklace in the other, and moved down, step by step, the dripping growing louder, closer. The walls pressed in, rough stone brushing my shoulders, and the air thickened, tasting of rust and forgotten things. My foot slipped on the fifth step, and I caught myself, heart lurching. I couldn't see the bottom—just the faint gleam of water, pooling somewhere below.
A sound—soft, almost a sigh—drifted up. I stopped, breath held. "Raisa?" I called, my voice echoing, fracturing against the stone. No answer, but the sigh came again, faint as a memory. I moved faster, the stairs spiraling tighter, the 13 on the key a weight pulling me down. Thirteen steps, maybe—I counted as I went, seven, eight, nine—until my foot hit something solid. A landing, small and wet, the floor uneven beneath me.
The neon's light didn't reach here, but a faint glow seeped from ahead—a crack in the wall, thin and jagged, spilling a pale, watery shimmer. I stepped closer, the dripping now a steady chorus, and saw it: a door. Not steel, but wood, swollen and warped, its surface scarred with scratches—claw marks, frantic, desperate. My stomach twisted. Her hands flashed in my mind, pounding, pleading.
I pressed the key to the lock, a rusted slot barely holding together. It fit—snug, reluctant—but turned with a groan, the mechanism grinding as if waking from sleep. The door shuddered, then gave, swinging inward with a creak that pierced the silence. Water trickled out, soaking my feet, cold as death. I stepped through, the necklace trembling in my grip, and the glow brightened—a single bulb, dim and flickering, hung from a chain in a low, cavernous room.
The walls wept, streaked with moss and grime, and the floor sloped toward a pool—black, still, its surface a mirror for the light. In the center, half-submerged, stood a chair—old, wooden, its legs rotting. And on it, a shape. A figure. My heart stopped. "Raisa," I breathed, stumbling forward, the water splashing around my ankles.
She didn't move. Her hair—long, dark—spilled over her face, hiding her eyes, her hands resting limp in her lap. A chain looped around her wrists, rusted but taut, anchoring her to the chair. I reached her, falling to my knees, the water soaking me through. "Raisa," I said again, louder, my voice breaking as I touched her arm. Cold. Too cold.
The speaker's voice echoed down, faint but clear: "You found her." I froze, my hand on her skin, and the bulb flickered, casting her face in shadow. Was she breathing? I couldn't tell. I shook her gently, her head lolling, and a sound—soft, ragged—escaped her lips. A breath? A moan? I couldn't be sure.
"Raisa, please," I begged, fumbling with the chain, the key useless now. The water rose, lapping at her knees, at mine, and the dripping swelled, a roar in my ears. The speaker hummed again: "Too late, Lukas." My chest caved. Too late? No—she was here, I'd found her—I wouldn't leave her again.
But her face stayed hidden, and the light dimmed, leaving only her shadow and mine, trembling in the dark.