The only way down to the house was through a safe. The turn handle was rusty and it would groan as you turned it and the mechanism wouldn’t open until you gave it a hearty thump. The decent down was dark and dreary and you would sometimes hear the distant scatter of rat feet on metal as you entered the house.

The house itself was surprisingly well-lit with high overhead lights. One could say it even felt homey. It was well warmed in the winter and cooled well during the summer. It provided rooms for all of us.

There were 61 of us in the Underground House. Each hall was lined with identical rooms with identical doors and identical children. No one understood why we were there or who we were. It was only the Underground House and us. It was as though no one wanted to leave.

I was the only one that knew about the safe. The way it groaned. And I was the only one that knew the sound of rat feet scurrying across metal. I was the only one that would pound on the metal door. I was the only one that found the house not warm enough, not cool enough. I was the only one that learned to understand.

I was the only one who left.