From a distance, the buildings had looked warm and accessible—red brick glowing in the sun, the chimney tower rising like a promise. It had seemed almost welcoming.

​

But as the old Skoda climbed and then dipped down the hill, the illusion peeled away. The sunlit bricks rose higher, and the shadows deepened. What had looked level was not level at all. The mine buildings weren’t nestled into the hillside—they stood atop a foundation of blackened, windowless walls that plunged down into darkness, unseen from the road above.

​

She gripped the wheel tighter as the car coasted downhill, gravity taking over. A sense of unease bloomed in her chest—the same panic you feel when the ocean pulls you too far, and your feet can't find the seabed.

​

And then the road flattened again, sweeping past the mine. The view shifted. The mine's black underbelly was hidden once more, leaving only the warm glow of brick, the rusted rail tracks, and a line of modest terrace houses with lace-curtained windows and cheerfully painted doors.

But even the cheerfulness felt strained. Those houses must have once belonged to miners. Now, their view overlooked a relic of what had once sustained them—now hollowed out, left to decay. A malignant shape buried beneath the street.

​

“I don’t think we can pull right up to it. We’ll have to park and walk,” she said, scanning the row of houses. There were cars parked behind the metal barriers; there must be a way in.

“I think you’re right,” he replied, glancing at the speedometer. The stream of overtaking cars kept him from finishing the complaint.

“Here!” She turned sharply onto a side road. He gave her a look—almost a protest—but stayed quiet.

As she parked, he saw something move in a window. Just a flicker—a hand pulling aside a curtain, a face shadowed and thin, watching. The eyes looked… panicked, though he couldn’t be sure. He looked back, but the face was gone. Just still curtains now.

“I doubt people pull in here unless they’re lost,” he muttered.

“Hmm?” she replied, distracted, reaching into the back for their flask. She handed him a steaming cup of tea that smelled faintly of plastic.

​

“The milk’s in the glove box,” she said.

​

“What?”

​

But his gaze had already drifted. Across the road, the mine loomed again in his mind. The sunlight hadn’t moved, but everything felt colder now.

​

He passed her the milk.

​

The tea was hot, if not pleasant. The sun had dipped lower, shadows creeping across the terraces. She went to the boot, grabbed the rucksack.

​

“Should we take the gardening gloves?”

​

“Yeah. Just in case.”

​

She shoved them into the bag. With one last glance toward the watching houses, they crossed the main road and slipped behind the flyover wall. The world changed again—louder here, with passing traffic above, but more hidden too. The ground was thick with brambles, littered with takeaway wrappers and energy cans.

​

They ducked under barbed wire. A scrap of lace underwear hung from the fence. She caught her hair on a bramble and was about to swear until she looked down—and stopped.

The bank dropped sharply.

​

There, hidden from the road, lay the old rail tracks. And beyond them, the mine.

The buildings still blazed red in the evening sun, chimney proud against the sky. But below, beneath the track and tucked against the hillside, was the mine's mouth. A black opening, cavernous and cold. It looked like it was breathing.

​

Stairs flanked the pit, choked with weeds but still intact. They climbed down carefully, loose stones and brick crumbling beneath their feet. At the bottom, they stood on the rail track. The air was different here. Heavier.

​

They both stared at the mine.

​

No one spoke.

​

Behind them, the terrace houses were still visible above the ridge. Still cheerful, still brightly painted. But they felt impossibly far away now. Sunlit, peaceful—and utterly disconnected from the dark place below.

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The only sound was traffic overhead.

​

They approached the stairs leading up to the outbuildings. Between them and the stairs, the mouth of the mine yawned—secured with old fencing, but still breathing cold air.

​

He paused. Looked back, once more, at the terrace houses. The curtains hadn’t moved.

​

But the cold down here was real, and deep. And the sun was slipping.

​

Without a word, they turned toward the rusted stairs.