Cellar


Deep underground, you hear the rushing, somewhere, of a subterranean train. Concrete monuments here erected extend beyond torchlight's reach, their blocky fingers scraping a vaulted ceiling unseen in darkness.
Their faces are unknown to you.
The monolithic bases on which they stand are carved with inscriptions in letters so sharp they rip skin on contact: messages in dead or forgotten languages. Ask an adult to help you read them.