Back in the safety of the study, Clara finally tore open the envelope. The letter inside was written on heavy, yellowed stationery. Mark’s voice was plain and devoid of drama. He wrote that the tunnel had existed before the house was even built. His father had discovered the ancient passage and constructed the residence specifically to mask its entrance.
He described the war years with a chilling lack of embellishment. The tunnel had been a lifeline, a secret artery used to move people through the mountain when the passes were watched by soldiers. The strange, external bolts on the doors had been for their safety—to keep refugees from accidentally wandering out into the light and alerting the patrols.
“I was only keeping a promise,” the letter concluded. Mark explained that he was the last of the line, and the responsibility now fell to her. He did not demand she continue the silence. He provided the name of an archival institution in the city. “You may do as you wish,” he wrote. “The mountain has kept its secret long enough.”