Behind it lay a hollow chamber, barely larger than my fist.

I reached inside, my skin brushing against cold, greasy metal.

My fingers closed around a heavy iron key.

It was thick, rusted, and cold enough to burn my skin.

I pulled it out and wiped the grime against my trousers.

The key matched the description in my mother’s letter.

“The old service corridor,” I whispered to the dark vault.

I turned my phone’s light toward the shadowed corner of the back wall.

There was a narrow seam in the stone, hidden behind a stack of rusted iron wine racks.

I dragged the racks aside, the metal screeching loudly against the concrete floor.

Behind them was a low, arched iron door, almost completely black with age and soot.

I found the keyhole near the bottom, half-choked with dust and cobwebs.

I inserted the key.

It resisted at first, the tumblers stiff from decades of moisture and disuse.

I leaned my entire weight into it, turning the key clockwise.

A deep, heavy click echoed through the small vault.