Below

The weather was bad enough.

I went down the stairs

when I was told to.

The walls are brick and stone,

something solid

that's been holding the weight

of the house above for decades.

The single bulb overhead

casts everything in yellow.

The smell of earth and old things,

that specific smell

of underground,

of being buried without dying.

The temperature dropped.

The air felt heavier.

I stayed down there longer than necessary.

The weather passed, but I didn't move.

I sat on the step

and felt the weight of the house above me,

all those rooms I'd just left,

all that air I could breathe.

But down here,

the air was different.

The air was holding something.

The air was asking something.

I didn't know what it was.

I still don't.

But I didn't want to go back up.

I wanted to stay in the yellow glow,

in the underground,

in the place where the world

seemed to slow down,

where time felt negotiable,

where I could disappear

and no one would notice

because I was already gone,

already below,

already in the place

where things go

when they stop existing above.