The sound wasn’t just beneath me; it vibrated through the soles of my boots.

  Knock.

  Knock.

  Knock.

  A rhythmic, hollow tapping—like someone rapping on a wooden coffin buried three feet down.

  I looked around the village square. A few elders swept their porches, movements synchronized and slow. They didn’t look up. They didn’t react to the subterranean thuds or my frantic breathing.

  To them, I was a ghost in the making.

  I checked my phone. 11:15 AM. The sun hung high, an aggressive white eye staring down. Less than an hour before the “Zenith.”

  I didn’t have tools. I fell to my knees and clawed at the dry, packed dirt where the knocking was loudest—right beside the stone tally post. My fingernails tore, but I didn’t care.

  "Uncle!" I choked out, voice raw. "Are you down there?"

  The knocking stopped.

  Then a voice drifted up through the soil. Strained, thin, bubbling like fluid.

  "Jun… stop… don’t dig."

  I froze. Fingers caked in blood and dirt. "Uncle? I’m going to get you out."

  "No," he wheezed. "The dirt is keeping them from smelling me. Listen, Jun. The room with no windows… it’s not a place. It’s a state of being."

  "What does that mean? The message said I have to find it!"

  "The house," he coughed. "Behind the kitchen… a cellar door hidden under the rug. It has no window because it’s not for the living. Get inside before the shadow of the post touches the tally. If you’re caught in the light when the count updates…"

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  He didn’t finish. A wet, tearing sound echoed below, followed by a sharp intake of breath.

  "Run, Jun. Run!"

  I scrambled to my feet and bolted through the narrow lanes, heart a frantic bird trapped in my ribs. The village seemed to stretch, lanes growing longer, grey houses leaning inward as if to block my path.

  I burst through the front door of the Liu house. The scent of last night’s “guest” lingered—that cloying mix of wet earth and copper.

  I sprinted to the kitchen. Kicked the table aside. Bowls clattered across the floor. I ripped up the tattered hemp rug.

  There it was.

  A heavy iron ring set into a wooden trapdoor. Caked in grime. Sealed with a strip of faded red cloth.

  I grabbed the ring. It didn’t budge. Felt as if the house itself was pressing down.

  I checked my phone. 11:52 AM. Through the window, the shadow of the village post was shrinking, inching toward the stone base. The “Zenith” was seconds away.

  "Open, damn it!" I screamed, bracing my feet and pulling with all my strength.

  The red cloth snapped.

  The trapdoor flew open with a groan of rusted hinges. Below: absolute, impenetrable blackness. No ladder. No stairs. Just a drop into a void.

  Lights are not for you.

  I glanced at the window. The shadow touched the tally.

  The kitchen air thickened, like syrup. The sunlight didn’t just brighten—it became a violent, searing gold that seemed to dissolve the edges of the world. A sound like a thousand cicadas screamed at once.

  I dived.

  Tumbled into the hole just as the blinding light swept the kitchen. Heat singed the back of my jacket before I landed on something soft, rustling beneath me.

  The trapdoor slammed shut.

  Silence. Total, suffocating silence.

  I lay still, heart hammering, and reached out. The “soft” surface was papery. Dry.

  I pulled out my phone. The screen was cracked. Hesitant, I powered it on.

  Dim light revealed the “room.”

  It wasn’t a cellar. A library of sorts. But there were no books.

  Walls lined floor to ceiling with thousands of small wooden tablets. Names carved into each. Some fresh, white; others blackened with rot.

  I looked down at what I had landed on.

  Not blankets. A mountain of red cloth strips—thousands—each inscribed with a date and a number.

  My phone vibrated.

  Unknown Sender:

  Ninety-seven. You are officially an observer. Welcome to the archives.

  I stood, phone light shaking, scanning the tablets. Searching for “Liu.”

  I found it. Corner, hidden behind rotted red rags.

  LIU WEI – my uncle.

  I reached for it. The wood was warm. Heart stopped.

  Behind it, another tablet. Fresh. Pale wood. Cedar scent sharp in the stagnant air.

  It had my name.

  Beneath my name, a date carved.

  Tomorrow.