Chapter 16
The old wine cellar remained closed for years.
I did not need it.
Then Peter, ten, discovered the door during a family dinner.
“What’s down there?”
“Wine.”
“Can see?”
I stopped.
My body remembered before my mind.
Mourning ribbon.
Empty table.
Planned disappearance.
Peter noticed.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
Lie.
I corrected.
“No.”
He waited.
Good kid.
“That room was part of the night people planned my funeral.”
His eyes widened.
“This room?”
“Yes.”
“Did they kill anyone?”
“No.”
Important.
“Did they hurt you?”
“Not physically.”
He nodded slowly.
Then:
“Can still see?”
His curiosity had not vanished because my memory hurt.
I opened the door.
We went down together.
The cellar had been renovated.
Normal shelves.
Dust.
Two broken stools.
Nothing waiting.
Peter walked around.
“This it?”
“Yes.”
He looked disappointed.
Trauma locations often are.
Buildings fail to match the size memory gives them.
He touched the central table.
Then:
“Can we put soda here?”
I laughed.
“Probably.”
The next family dinner, we stored soft drinks in the cellar for younger guests.
Not symbolic.
Practical.
Children went downstairs constantly.
Noise.
Laughter.
No one disappeared.
May you like
The room became boring.
That may be the best kind of healing.
