By early December she could stand inside the space. Her lantern light made the walls glow dull and damp. She began laying stone, palms numb, breath puffing. The river rocks felt cold now, but she knew stone was patient. It would store heat once warmed, hold it like a promise that didn’t break.
She packed pine needles and bark between stone and earth to trap air. She built a small platform for bedding, raised just enough to keep blankets away from damp. She fitted the ventilation pipe, testing it with the flame of a candle, watching the flicker lean when air moved.
Then she relaid the floorboards above, leaving only a small trap door, hidden beneath a woven rug.
From above, nothing looked different. From below, it was quiet.
The first time she climbed down to test it, she carried a candle and her fear. She sat on the platform and listened. No boards rattling. No wind moaning through cracks. The air was still, slightly musty, but warm enough that her breath didn’t sting.
