A single bulb hung from a frayed wire near the stairs, casting a weak, yellow circle on the concrete floor.

I hurried toward the old coal cellar at the far end of the corridor.

The wooden door was heavy, its iron latch covered in a thick layer of rust.

As I reached for the handle, a faint, wet sob came from inside the room.

I froze, my hand hovering inches from the cold metal.

The sound came again, muffled and desperate.

I pushed the door open slowly, the hinges groaning in the darkness.

A small flashlight beam was dancing across the brick wall inside the small room.

Sitting on an upturned wooden crate was Mrs. Conti.

Her apron was stained, and she was clutching her silver rosary beads so tightly her knuckles were white.

She gasped when she saw my silhouette in the doorway, dropping the flashlight.

The light rolled across the dusty floor, illuminating her tear-streaked face.

“Nina,” she whispered, her voice cracking with terror. “Oh, thank God.”

I stepped into the room and closed the heavy door behind me, cutting off the weak light from the hallway.