The tunnels seemed alive tonight.
Not with people. Not with sound. But with the weight of eyes in the dark, the kind that didn’t belong to rats or scavengers. The kind that made your skin crawl, though nothing stirred.
Lyra’s lantern swung in her hand, casting soft rings of light that danced on cracked tile and rust-streaked pipes. The flame sputtered once as a draft whispered through the corridor—cold, sharp, damp.
She stopped. Listened.
Water dripped somewhere ahead, echoing like a ticking clock. Her boots shifted in shallow puddles, sending ripples down the narrow shaft.
The graffiti here was older, faded. No fresh chalk lines. No recent scuffs from boots. But still, something told her she was on the right path. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe the faint smell of smoke, clinging to the air even this far below. Or maybe—just maybe—some invisible tether still pulled her toward him.
No comments:
Post a Comment