But near the base of the heater, the floor changed.

A small section of the original wooden flooring—thick, rough-hewn planks of dark pine—remained intact, a remnant of an old coal bin that had never been cemented over.

I hurried across the cold room, my boots clicking softly on the concrete.

I knelt down beside the water heater, the heat radiating from its metal tank warming the side of my face.

The wood planks were covered in a thick layer of grey dust and lint.

I began to run my fingers along the seams of the wood, searching for any sign of a loose board.

My fingers came away black with soot.

“Come on,” I whispered to myself, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I pressed down on the corner of the third plank.

It didn’t budge.

I moved to the fourth plank, the one closest to the copper pipes running up into the ceiling.

When I pressed my palm against the center, the board gave a fraction of an inch.

A hollow, scraping sound echoed in the small space.