The middle-aged woman grabbed Grandpa’s arm.

“Please.”

He looked at her through tears.

“You told me I was imagining it.”

The young woman stared at them both.

“What is going on?”

Another knock came from beneath the metal door.

Two slow taps.

Grandpa’s face collapsed.

“That was her signal.”

The young woman’s breath caught.

“What signal?”

He looked at her.

“When your mother was little, she knocked twice whenever she was scared.”

The middle-aged woman began shaking.

“I thought it had stopped.”

The young woman turned on her.

“You knew?”

Silence.

That was the answer.

Grandpa pulled the buried handle.

The old metal door opened with a groan, revealing steps descending into darkness.

The young woman covered her mouth.

At the bottom was a small room.

And someone was inside.

A woman stepped toward the light, thin and trembling, one hand shielding her eyes.

The young woman stopped breathing.

Same eyes.

Same scar above the eyebrow.

Same face from the photograph beside her bed.

“Mom?”

The woman began to cry.

But before the young woman could move, her mother looked past her toward the middle-aged woman.

Fear filled her face.

Then she whispered,

“Don’t let her close the door again.”