Each step felt like a risk, the old wood groaning under our weight.

At the bottom, the basement opened into a vast cavern of brick arches and concrete pillars.

It felt like a dungeon beneath the elegant dining room above.

“The old wine cellar is this way,” Mr. Alvarez said, pointing his flashlight down a narrow corridor.

We walked past stacks of wooden crates and dusty bottles of vintage wine.

The floor was uneven, made of packed dirt and loose stones.

We reached a heavy iron gate at the end of the corridor.

I took the brass key from my pocket and inserted it into the lock.

It turned with a heavy, metallic click.

I pushed the gate open, the hinges squealing in protest.

Inside, the air was even colder, and our breath misted in the beam of the flashlight.

“Over here,” Mr. Alvarez said, shining the light on the back wall.

The wall was made of old red bricks, some of them crumbling at the edges.

“Nico had a mason build this wall thirty years ago,” he said.

“But he left one section loose.”