I followed them. The tunnel curved left, leading deeper underground. On either side, a few doorways branched off, revealing tiny rooms. I swept my flashlight across them. Most were empty. Some were filled with sagging furniture.
I kept going.
Then the lights stopped—a dead end, visually at least. Darkness swallowed the tunnel ahead.
I lifted the flashlight. Its narrow beam cut through the black. The path ended in a split—two choices.
Left: nothing but a thick stone wall, sealing off that route like it had never existed.
Right: looked the same at first, but a few feet in, barely out of reach of the flashlight beam, something glowed. It was a soft orange flicker.
I followed the orange flicker down the tunnel. The light grew stronger with each step.
There, framed by rough rock, was what appeared to be a doorway. The light came from within, glowing warm and steady like a hearth just out of sight.
A few feet from the opening, I froze.
A sound echoed into the tunnel. It was subtle but unmistakable.
Metal tapping against porcelain, like someone stirring a spoon in a teacup.
My fingers clamped around the knife. The flashlight clicked off in my other hand. Darkness pressed in, thick and calm, like it was waiting for something.
I listened but nothing happened. Not a single peep, breath, or creak. The stillness stretched like it might never end.
“It’s rude to spy on people like that,” a woman said. My breath caught and my heart hammered against my chest like it wanted out. The voice was clear, calm, a little annoyed. It was the woman’s voice from the day I fainted.
I waited for a few more seconds. Then I took a couple steps forward, careful and slow, right through the stone-framed opening. The short tunnel beyond it led to a heavy steel door. It looked like something from a vault: reinforced and bolted in all directions.
But it stood wide open.
Crossing the threshold, I entered a room that didn’t belong in a basement. It looked...lived in. Cozy. A fully furnished living room spread out before me. It had a couch, a large flat-screen TV, and a coffee table stacked with a few magazines.
A kitchen shared the space. It was open-concept, complete with barstools and marble counters. To the side sat a small study area lined with book-stuffed shelves.
A few doors led off the space. One revealed a tidy bedroom, the other a bathroom. A third door, solid metal and bolted, remained firmly shut. There were no windows anywhere, but the lighting was warm, spread evenly across the ceiling and walls. It looked soft and homey, as if someone had tried really hard to make this basement feel that way.
In the far corner next to the bookshelf, the woman from the mirror sat curled in a large armchair, stirring tea as she read.Her long silver hair fell wild over striped pajamas. Her ice-blue eyes snapped toward me, her gaze sharp as glass.
I wanted to run and question every decision that had led to this moment.
But I didn’t move.
“Is . . . is this real?” The words barely came out.
I was met with silence. It hung in the air for a second too long before her gaze flicked to the knife in my hand.
“What did you bring that for?” she asked flatly. “Not very smart if you wanted to come down here looking harmless and friendly.”
“Oh, God.” I stepped toward the counter and set the blade down carefully. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t—”
She snapped her book shut with a clap. “Now that’s even dumber,” she said. “You don’t know me. What if I’d wanted to hurt you? That knife might’ve been the only thing keeping you alive.”
I glanced between her and the knife. I was tempted to snatch it back. Though, if she wanted me dead, she’d already had the chance when I’d passed out in front of her. And she hadn’t taken it.
“Who are you?” The question slipped out as I took a small step back.
She didn’t answer right away, just studied me like a specimen. Then she set the book on the side table.
