The tunnels did not welcome her. They swallowed her.
Weeks passed in that forgotten world. Dust clung to her coat. Her hair, once sunlit brown, now streaked with soot and rust. Her fingers blistered from crawling through rusted ducts, her voice cracked from days without use. She spoke only when it mattered—when she found the marks.
Symbols. Scratches. Faint chalk lines that no one above could decipher, but that she knew were his. Solace had always left trails—tiny signs, like breadcrumbs for those who dared follow.
Once, she found an alcove—a dry patch with an oil lamp still warm. A piece of cloth rested there: gray, torn, worn. It had a stitched edge she recognized. Her mother's sewing. Her brother’s coat.
She wept for the first time in months.
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