the Fifth Hour

The key sat heavy in my palm, its rusted surface stained with my blood and the faint 13 mocking me from its flat side. I turned it over, again and again, as if staring could unlock its meaning. The necklace dangled from my other hand, the heart pendant swaying like a pendulum, ticking down the hours I couldn't count. The speaker's last words rang in my head: You're running out of places to hide. Hide from what? The truth? Raisa? Myself?

The dripping hadn't stopped—steady, maddening, a rhythm I couldn't shake. It came from the crack in the wall, the thin fissure I'd pried the key from, still weeping water onto the floor. I knelt beside it again, the concrete biting into my knees. The pool had spread, a shallow mirror reflecting the flickering neon above. I traced the crack upward with my fingers, higher than before, past where I'd stopped. It didn't end. It climbed, faint but there, all the way to the ceiling.

I stood, craning my neck. The neon light buzzed, casting jagged shadows, but I saw it—a seam, barely visible, where the wall met the ceiling. Not just a crack, but a line, deliberate, like the edge of something sealed shut. My pulse quickened. A panel? A hatch? I pressed my hands to the wall, pushing, feeling for give. Nothing. The concrete was solid, cold, unyielding. But the key—it had come from here. It meant something.

I stepped back, scanning the room with new eyes. Look closer, the voice had said. I'd been blind, trapped in my head, in Raisa's fractured memories, while the answers were here, carved into this cage. I moved to the table, flipping it over with a grunt. The underside was rough, scratched, but empty—no secrets there. I kicked it aside, the clatter echoing, and turned to the steel door again. The key didn't fit the lock, but maybe I'd missed something else.

I ran my hands along the door's edges, fingers catching on rust and grime. At the bottom, near the hinge, the metal was warped—bent inward, just enough to notice. I dropped to the floor, peering closer. A gap, thin as a blade, separated the door from the concrete. I wedged the key into it, prying, but it wouldn't budge. My breath fogged against the steel as I pressed my eye to the slit. Darkness beyond, and a faint draft—cold, damp, carrying the scent of earth and water. The river? My chest tightened. Was she out there?

"Raisa," I whispered, the name slipping out. No answer, just the drip-drip-drip behind me. I stood, slamming my shoulder into the door, once, twice, until pain radiated down my arm. It didn't move. I cursed, spinning back to the room, my gaze darting—walls, floor, ceiling. The speaker hung silent, its rust-streaked shell taunting me. I grabbed the pen from the floor and hurled it at the thing. It struck, bouncing off with a dull clang, but the speaker didn't flinch.

Then I saw it—the floor. The water from the crack had pooled wider, seeping into the concrete's grooves. I knelt, tracing the lines. They weren't random. Faint, worn, but there—a grid, etched into the stone, like tiles long since fused together. One square, near the center, was darker, stained, its edges slightly raised. I pressed my fingers to it, pushing. It shifted—a hair, but enough. My heart leapt.

I jammed the key into the edge, leveraging it like a crowbar. The tile resisted, then gave with a grinding scrape, sliding back an inch. Dust puffed up, and a hollow sound echoed beneath—a space, a cavity. I clawed at it, prying with my hands, the key, anything, until the tile lifted free. Below was a shallow recess, damp and dark, carved into the foundation. My breath caught as I reached in, fingers brushing something cold, smooth—a metal box, small enough to fit in my palm.

I pulled it out, trembling. It was rusted, dented, its lid sealed tight. The number 13 was scratched into the top, matching the key. I fumbled with the key, sliding it into a tiny lock on the side. It clicked, stiff but yielding, and the lid sprang open. Inside, nestled on a bed of moldy cloth, was a photograph—faded, water-stained, but clear enough to stop my heart.

Raisa stared back at me. Her long hair framed her face, her eyes bright with that familiar warmth, her lips curved in a half-smile. She stood by the river, the water glinting behind her, and I was there—my arm around her, my face turned to hers, smiling too. We looked… happy. Whole. But scrawled across the bottom, in red ink that bled into the paper, were three words: You Left Her.

I dropped the box, the photo fluttering to the floor. My hands shook as I picked it up, staring at her—at us. "No," I breathed. "I didn't—I wouldn't—" But the memory surged: rain, her cries behind a door, my footsteps fading as I ran. The blood flashed again, vivid, soaking my hands as she fell. Had I left her to die? Locked her away and abandoned her?

The speaker crackled, loud and sudden. "You can't run from it," it said, the voice flat, final. "She's still down there." Down there? My eyes darted to the hole in the floor, the empty box. I shoved the photo into my pocket and grabbed the key, scraping at the surrounding tiles. They didn't move, but the hollow sound spread—under me, all around me. A trapdoor? A cellar? My mind spun. Thirteen—thirteen feet below? Thirteen steps?

I pounded the floor, desperate, the key gouging the concrete. "Raisa!" I yelled, my voice breaking. "I'm coming!" The dripping swelled, a roar now, as if the river itself were rising to meet me. The neon flickered wildly, shadows dancing, and the speaker buzzed again: "Time's running out."

I dug harder, blood mixing with water, the photo burning in my pocket. She was here—beneath me, waiting, like the voice said. And I'd find her, even if it killed me.