Part 2: Below

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The ladder's rungs were coated in old green paint that flaked off under Melanie's grip and clung to her clammy skin. About 15 feet down she stepped to the dusty, leaf-strewn concrete floor. To her left lay an archway, dimly lit by the same kinds of lamps she recognized from subway tunnels; she was immensely relieved and comforted by their presence. She looked back up at the sky through the grating--a vivid, overly-bright blue. A single pulled-puff of cotton candy cloud drifted by. She regarded again the archway, its amber lamps like eyes in the darkness.

She walked through.

The tunnel smelled of dirt, but not a fresh dirt, not of living soil; of compressed layers of dust. Of neglect. Of old corners in disused basements. Of cellars and broken sheds. Of things stored and forgotten.

Wires loped along the walls, which had eroded in crumbling chunks, littering the floor with bits of rubble. As Melanie's eyes adjusted, she could see more easily the cracks in the floor, the holes in the wall, and the skittering movements just out of peripheral vision. She assumed mice (or rats), but she wasn't sure she cared to examine more closely.

Several minutes walk along the dark tunnel, she came to a dead end: a bricked over archway. She retraced her steps, looking for a side exit that she had missed, but there was nothing; just the flat tunnel with its impenetrable wall.

She walked right up to it, feeling her fingers over the brick; they came away with a thick layer of dust on the tips. "I don't understand," she whispered to herself, or perhaps to the subway mice. She pushed, tentatively on the brick, but it stayed solid. She sighed, and leaned her back against it, rubbing the dust off her on her jeans, leaving streaks down her thighs, before looking down and noticing the a small stand, in the corner on her right, in shadows and nearly invisible. Mounted on the stand was a glass-and-metal box, with a slot on the top. A fare box, also coated in dust.

Melanie, very slowly and deliberately pulled the tote bag off her shoulder, her left hand rummaging blind in the corner, where she knew it would have collected. A shiny silver token, about the size of a dime, rimmed in bronze and ridged. She examined it, squinting in the faint amber light: one side was the logo of the TTC, a shield and banner, with tiny raised words that she couldn't see but knew by heart. Valid for one fare. The other side, instead of bearing the name Toronto Transit Commission had instead a miniscule picture: three parts, like a clover with something round hanging over it, but the shape was too tiny and the light too faint. She wished she had examined it on the streetcar ride, in the full sunlight.

She leaned over and deposited the token into the fare box. There was a pause and then a chu-chunk noise as the fare was accepted.

Suddenly, Melanie could feel a draft on her left. A revolving gateway suddenly appeared in what had been blank wall. Instead of actual doors the thin entryway had only metal prongs, mounted in three blade-like arrangements, like hair-curler, mounted vertically. Above the red trim was the word ENTRANCE.

She repositioned the Loblaws tote on her shoulder, and, with a deep breath, pushed her way through.

*

I just don't know if it's a good idea, he had said, as they strolled through the neighbourhood one evening, snow falling thickly around them. I don't want to rush into anything.

She had laughed, had thought it a good joke, but the expression on his face had sobered her up. You're serious.

He squeezed her hand, then, his gloves and her mittens making a slight rasping noise, barely noticeable except in the hush of the snow. Why shouldn't I be? he had asked her, looking down at her, frowning. It's a big decision.

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