The Sixth Hour

The air hung heavy, damp with the breath of unseen water. I knelt before the hole in the floor, the rusted box beside me, its empty mouth gaping like a wound. The photograph of Raisa trembled in my pocket, her smile a faint pulse against my thigh. The key—marked with its cryptic 13—rested in my hand, cold as the concrete beneath me. The dripping sang on, a quiet hymn threading through the silence, and in its rhythm, I heard her name. Raisa. Raisa. A whisper I couldn't unhear.

The neon light flickered above, a dying star casting pale threads across the room. Shadows bent and stretched, as if the walls themselves breathed. I traced the edge of the hole with my fingertips, the concrete jagged where I'd torn the tile free. Below, darkness yawned—a void that swallowed sound, light, memory. I leaned closer, the chill rising to meet me, and caught a scent: earth, wet and old, laced with something sharp. Iron, maybe. Blood.

My chest tightened. I saw her again—not the Raisa of the photo, laughing by the river, but another, paler version. Her hair clung to her face, wet with rain or tears, her eyes wide as she pressed her hands to a wall—a door—a glass pane. "Lukas," she'd mouthed, her voice lost to the storm. I'd turned away then, the key heavy in my hand, my steps echoing as I fled. Fled from her. From what I'd done.

The speaker snapped me back, its crackle a whip against the stillness. "You buried her," it said, low and soft, like a secret spilled over tea. "Deep, where no one would look." I froze, the key slipping in my grip. Buried her? The words sank into me, slow and cold, rooting in my bones. I stared at the hole. Deep. Down there. My hands moved before my mind caught up, clawing at the surrounding tiles, the key scraping, my nails splitting against stone.

The floor resisted, unyielding as a forgotten promise. I struck it with the key, again, again, the clangs sharp and hollow. A tile shifted—not much, a breath—but enough to reveal another seam, another edge. My pulse raced, a frantic drum against my ribs. I pried at it, the key bending under the strain, until the second tile loosened. It came free with a groan, dust rising like smoke, and beneath it—a grate. Metal, rusted, its bars thin and warped, set flush into the concrete.

I pressed my face to it, peering through the slats. Darkness, endless, but a faint gleam flickered far below—water, maybe, catching the neon's dying light. The dripping grew louder, sharper, a chorus now, calling from the depths. I ran my hands over the grate, searching for a latch, a hinge. Nothing. Just cold bars and the number 13 scratched into the center, faint as a ghost.

"Raisa," I whispered, my voice trembling on the edge of a sob. Was she down there? Buried, waiting, like the voice said? I saw her again—her hands pounding glass, her eyes pleading—then deeper, darker: her body curled in a box, a tomb, water seeping in. My stomach churned. I jammed the key into the grate's edge, twisting, prying, but it wouldn't give. The bars mocked me, silent and still.

The speaker hummed, alive again. "She's counting the hours," it said, its tone flat, distant, like a wind over a grave. "Will you leave her again?" My breath hitched. Leave her again. The photo burned in my pocket, her smile a blade. I hadn't meant to—I hadn't wanted— But the memory returned: rain, a locked door, her fading cries. I'd left her once. I wouldn't now.

I stood, staggering to the wall, the crack still weeping its slow tears. The seam climbed to the ceiling, a scar I couldn't unsee. I pressed my palms to it, pushing, clawing, the key scraping uselessly against concrete. "There has to be more," I muttered, my voice ragged. The room was a puzzle, a cage with secrets stitched into its bones—if I could just find them. I turned to the steel door, its warped edge glinting faintly. The draft still seeped through, cold and wet, whispering of rivers and earth.

I dropped to the floor again, wedging the key into the gap beneath the door. It caught, metal grinding on metal, and I pulled. A screech tore through the room as the door shifted—not open, but loose, a fraction of an inch. My heart leapt. I yanked harder, the key bending, my hands slick with sweat and blood. The gap widened—just enough to see: a sliver of shadow beyond, and something white, small, fluttering in the draft.

I reached through, fingers straining, and snatched it—a scrap of paper, torn and damp. I pulled it back, unfolding it with shaking hands. Words, scrawled in a frantic hand I didn't recognize: Don't forget me, Lukas. My throat closed. Raisa's voice echoed in my mind, soft, desperate: "Don't let go." The paper crumpled in my fist as I pressed it to my chest, her plea sinking into me.

The speaker crackled once more. "The key fits more than one lock," it said, and fell silent. I stared at the grate, the door, the crack—each a piece, each a question. The key trembled in my hand, its 13 a riddle I couldn't solve. More than one lock. More than one truth. I knelt by the grate again, pressing the key to the bars, searching for a slot, a seam. Nothing fit, but the water gleamed below, calling.

I closed my eyes, Raisa's face flickering behind my lids—her smile, her tears, her hands against glass. "I won't forget," I whispered, to her, to the room, to the hours slipping away. The dripping answered, steady, eternal, and I knew: the cage was breaking open, piece by piece. I just had to keep looking.