The Cellar

The dim, flickering light from the single bulb overhead cast long, dancing shadows across the cellar walls. Summer shivered, pulling the thin blanket tighter around her, though it did little to ward off the damp chill that seeped into her bones. Months. It had been months since she’d last felt the sun on her skin, since she’d breathed air that wasn't stale and recycled.

Rose sat silently across the worn table, meticulously braiding a length of twine, her movements slow and practiced. Poppy was huddled in a corner, tracing patterns on the dusty floor with her finger, a faint, mournful hum barely audible. Violet, ever quiet, watched Summer with wide, unblinking eyes from her makeshift bed.

Every sound outside their immediate space—the distant creak of pipes, the soft scuttle of something unseen—sent a fresh jolt of fear through Summer. He could be anywhere. He could be listening. The thought was a constant, suffocating presence. Her throat ached with unshed tears, but she swallowed them back, forcing her gaze to harden. She wouldn’t break. Not here. Not now.