The foul, damp air rushed up the stairwell, making me cover my nose as my eyes adjusted to the dim light.
Grace stood beside me, completely unfazed, holding my sleeve with her small hand. “Go down,” she whispered softly. “Mom is always sitting in the corner when Dad goes to work.”
I took a deep breath, reached for the light switch beside the doorframe, and flipped it. A single flickering bulb illuminated a set of concrete steps leading down into the darkness.
Step by step, I descended, my hand trembling against the cold wooden handrail.
At the bottom of the stairs sat a large, windowless room filled with old furniture covered in dust sheets, stacked cardboard boxes, and forgotten toys. But in the far corner, illuminated by the low glow of a plug-in nightlight, was a fully furnished living space.
There was a small cot with fresh blankets, a chemical toilet behind a screen, and a small table covered in crayons, drawings, and worn books.
