I stayed home, making chicken soup that smelled of thyme and garlic, the steam curling up and filling the kitchen with warmth. The girls, bundled in oversized hoodies, hovered around the table, their eyes bright despite the sniffles.
After lunch, the house felt too big, the silence too heavy. I tried to coax them into bed early, but the energy of two children with a fever was like trying to hold water in my hands.
“Let’s play hide‑and‑seek,” Emily suggested, her voice hopeful.
“Okay,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic, though my mind was already racing with thoughts of the locked door, the smell of the basement that I’d never experienced, the way Daniel would always avoid the subject.
We played, the girls giggling as they disappeared behind curtains, under tables, and in the laundry room. Their footsteps echoed in the hallway, the sound bouncing off the walls, creating a rhythm that made the house feel alive.
Grace, with her dark curls pulled back into a messy ponytail, ran up to me, her cheeks flushed from the excitement. She held my hand, her small fingers gripping tightly.
“Do you want to meet my mom? Then we could invite her to play hide‑and‑seek with us too.”
I froze. My breath caught, a sudden coldness spreading through my chest.
“Sweetheart, what do you mean?” I asked, my voice trembling a little.
Grace looked surprised, as if she hadn’t expected my reaction. “Well, Mom also loved playing hide‑and‑seek with us. Do you want me to show you where my mom lives? You can finally meet her.”
She tugged gently at my sleeve, her eyes shining with an earnestness that made my heart race. “Come on, I’ll take you.”
For a moment, the world seemed to tilt. The rain hammered against the windows, the house creaked, and the girls’ muffled giggles faded into the background. I felt a strange mix of curiosity, fear, and something deeper, a knot in my stomach that I couldn’t untangle.
Grace led me down the hallway, her small hand never leaving mine. She stopped in front of the basement door, the brass lock catching the dim light.
“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.
