I waited until everyone was asleep.
Mom's soft snore from across the hall.
The creak of the heater.
The kind of silence that doesn't want to be broken.
But I broke it anyway.
I stepped into the hallway barefoot.
Avoided the third floorboard—it always screamed.
Made my way to the kitchen.
Then down.
To the basement door.
Still cracked.
Still breathing.
Lucas didn't follow me this time.
He stood at the top of the stairs.
Didn't say a word.
Didn't need to.
The steps were colder than before.
Or maybe I was.
Each one felt like it might collapse.
But I kept going.
Until the concrete floor touched my feet.
Until the dark swallowed the ceiling.
I didn't bring a flashlight.
I didn't need one.
The dark knew me now.
And I knew it back.
The rocking chair wasn't moving this time.
But I could still hear it.
The memory of it.
Then I heard her.
Clearer than ever.
Not humming.
Speaking.
From beneath the floor.
"Daniel…"
"Are you still my good boy?"
My throat tightened.
I couldn't speak.
Only cry.
Silent. Steady. Controlled.
Like I'd learned to.
"Did you forget what I taught you?" she asked.
Her voice didn't echo.
It filled the room like fog.
Lucas's voice came behind me.
But he wasn't in the room.
"Don't answer."
"She'll take you back."
But I wanted to answer.
Because part of me missed her.
Not her hands.
Not the attic.
But the parts between the screams.
The songs.
The stories.
The only moments I felt… wanted.
I knelt down.
Touched the floor with my palm.
It was warm.
Alive.
Waiting.
I whispered:
"I didn't forget."
And the floor cracked.
Just slightly.
Like a thank you.
I stood.
Climbed the stairs without turning back.
Lucas waited for me at the top.
He didn't look angry.
Just disappointed.
"I had to," I said.
He nodded once.
"Then don't pretend anymore."
And I knew what he meant.
The next day, I didn't smile at school.
Didn't lie in therapy.
Didn't flinch when my mom asked how I slept.
Because I didn't sleep.
Not really.
I remembered.
And remembering hurt less than pretending.
That night, I left the door open.
Just in case the floor wanted to speak again.
And I promised myself:
Next time, I'd listen closer.