Below

She opened the door behind the furnace.

Concrete stairs going down.

A bare bulb at the bottom

hanging from old wire.

Nothing down there now.

Just the smell of concrete

and something older. The cold

that settles in places nobody uses.

She said her family came down here.

During tornadoes. During the worst.

She said you could hear the wind

but not feel it.

That's shelter. Not comfort.

The ability to wait somewhere

while the world decides

whether you'll keep your roof.

The stairs are steep.

The bulb flickers.

I didn't ask why she never

goes down there anymore.

Some places hold their history

in the foundation. In the walls

that remember when they mattered.

When they were the only thing

between you and the sky

trying to kill you.

Now it's just storage.

A basement that remembers.