Pushing through the metal door, Richard found himself in a short, narrow passage. The transition from the utilitarian sub-level to what lay ahead was jarring. At the end of the hall, he stepped into a space that seemed entirely out of place: a quaint front porch framed by wooden beams, a set of modest patio chairs, and soft lanterns mounted on posts. It resembled the front of a home, complete with a sloping roofline and a painted door. If not for the lingering smell of damp earth and the knowledge that he was deep underground, he might have believed he’d stepped onto an ordinary suburban porch.

  A sudden click broke the silence. Warm and inviting lights blinked around the patio’s perimeter, revealing weather-worn wicker furniture and wind chimes that tinkled softly, stirred by a faint draft. Inside the “house,” more lights sprang to life. Richard heard footsteps approaching the door. Unbothered by the situation, Joy gruffed quietly and trotted forward, her nose leading her as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

  The front door creaked open, and Richard nearly dropped his flashlight. Standing there was a skinny old man with a thick, unruly beard. His glasses were in rough shape—one lens shattered, the frame held together by layers of yellowed tape. They stared at each other, two strangers meeting in the strangest of circumstances, frozen in a silence that felt both charged and surreal.

  After an agonizing few seconds, the old man spoke, voice cracking from disuse. “Are you real?” He lifted his free hand, fingers trembling slightly as if expecting Richard to vanish at any moment.

  Richard could only nod, his mind blank. Before he could find words, Joy bounded into the home, sniffing around the entryway as if greeting an old friend. The old man’s eyes widened at the dog’s brazenness, and he let out a surprised huff. Richard, still stunned, managed to take a few halting steps forward.

  “Please, please,” the old man urged, stepping aside and beckoning Richard inside. “Come in.”

  The kitchen they entered could have been from any rural home—sturdy wooden table, mismatched chairs, a kettle on the stovetop. The scent of something savory lingered, and Richard realized Joy must have followed that aroma. He would've sworn they were in a typical farmhouse kitchen if he hadn’t just traversed a hidden sub-level, broken through a faux curtain wall, and solved a puzzle-door keypad.

  The old man’s eyes shone with desperate hope. “The hatch? The door?” he croaked, voice rasping like ancient parchment. “They’re still open?”

  Richard cleared his throat, still disoriented. “Yes,” he managed. “Both are open. You’re not trapped anymore.”

  The old man’s reaction was immediate. He laughed, a joyous but shaky sound that devolved into a coughing fit. Tears welled at the corners of his eyes. “I’m free?” he rasped as though the concept were a distant memory rather than a reality.

  In time, they settled at the kitchen table. The old man poured tea into chipped mugs, his hands quivering excitedly. Joy lapped at a bowl of stew—apparently left out or prepared recently and rich enough to draw the dog right in. Richard sipped warm and soothing tea and tried to make sense of everything. Finally, he found his voice again.

  “Are you Samuel Thompson?” he asked, leaning forward, curiosity and sympathy blending in his tone.

  The old man nodded, a faint smile curling beneath his beard. “That’s me,” he said quietly. “My father built this place—shelter during the Cold War. After he passed, I tinkered with it and turned it into a project. The farm was thriving then. After my wife died, I… I lost myself in this underground haven. Grew careless. Locked myself down here, and… well, you see how thorough I was. The place was stocked for two people for a decade. Alone, I made it last longer. I don’t even know how many years have passed. What was meant to be a fun house for the neighborhood kids turned into a tomb for me.”

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  He stared into his tea, voice drifting off. “I’ve been alone so long,” he added a cracked whisper. “I don’t know what year it is. I don’t know anything beyond these walls. Until now.”

  Richard told him the date, mentioned the changes in the world above, and explained how a strange series of events led him and Joy down here—though he glossed over details that might frighten or overwhelm the old man. He half-expected Thompson to leap up at the news and race for fresh air, but the man simply nodded as if needing time to trust his senses again.

  Eventually, Thompson stood, retrieved a worn cane from behind a cabinet, and gestured toward the door. “Lead the way,” he said, voice steadying as he leaned on the cane. He glanced around the kitchen—his makeshift prison of so many years—and then followed Richard and Joy, step by cautiously, back toward freedom.

  They retraced their steps through the hidden corridor, Samuel Thompson chattering breathlessly now that relief and the promise of freedom coursed through his veins. He rambled about his grand underground project—how, after his wife’s death, he buried himself in the construction of this secret refuge, borrowing whimsical elements from his favorite stories. He admitted to being inspired by Indiana Jones’s booby traps, the Goonies’ treasure hunts, and even a pinch of The Wizard of Oz. He smiled wistfully at this last reference as they passed the projector’s podium as if remembering a younger, happier version of himself. Richard could only listen, fascinated and bewildered in equal measure.

  Approaching the curtained partition again, Richard and Joy led the way. Light from Richard’s flashlight spilled through the fabric. On the other side, muffled voices drifted closer. They stepped through the makeshift screen—and were met by the blinding glare of multiple flashlights. A cluster of men stood there, startled. Richard recognized three uniformed police officers, Stefan among them, and lingering at the back, Hank—his face a mixture of relief, confusion, and curiosity. The sudden appearance of two men from behind what should have been a solid wall nearly caused one of the officers to jump out of his skin.

  Samuel reached discreetly around the corner, feeling for a panel Richard hadn’t noticed before. He found a hidden switch and flicked it on. Overhead lights hummed to life, bathing the underground space in a dull glow. The officers lowered their flashlights, blinking at the unexpected indoor setting beneath the barn. Stefan took a cautious step forward, his gaze darting from Richard to Joy and then to the frail, bearded figure who looked like he had stepped out of another era.

  Richard raised a calming hand. “Let’s get out of here,” he said quietly. “I’ll explain everything once we’re above ground.”

  The police complied without argument, escorting the small group back through the passages, up the ladder, and finally out of the barn’s cramped darkness. Outside, the night sky felt calm and open, and Richard’s lungs filled gratefully with fresh air. Samuel squinted at the moon and stars, tears welling as he took in a world he hadn’t seen for so long. An ambulance approached with lights low and no sirens, summoned by the officers who had gone down to look for Richard and Joy. Two EMTs assisted Samuel, guiding him toward a stretcher and taking his vitals as he mumbled about lost time and old regrets.

  Under the barn’s looming silhouette, Richard recounted how he and Joy discovered the hatch, deciphered the codes, found the projector, and ultimately freed Samuel Thompson from his underground isolation. Stefan and the lead officer exchanged glances of disbelief, but neither disputed the tale. Perhaps they sensed the truth in Richard’s voice or trusted him enough not to invent such a wild story. Hank stood by, lips parted in silent awe, wishing he’d gone down there alongside Richard from the start, relieved he hadn’t encountered that giant illusory figure unprepared.

  Before taking his leave, Richard apologized to Hank for staying out past their agreed time. The young man waved it off, too enthralled by the events to care about broken promises of a timely return. He wore a grin that spoke more of admiration than annoyance.

  Back home, Richard stepped into the warm hush of his living room. Joy padded over to the couch and leaped up, turning in a tight circle before settling into her favorite corner. Richard flopped down beside her, exhaustion catching up fast. He stroked Joy’s soft fur, feeling her gentle, steady breathing through his fingertips.

  “Well, Joy,” he murmured, smiling faintly at the sleeping dog, “this is one for the books.”

  Moments later, drifting into much-needed sleep, he recalled Samuel’s delighted, tearful face under the moonlight and wondered at the strange chain of events that led to this night. Then he let his eyelids close, surrendering to well-deserved rest.