Clara

You’re at a large party in an old, creaking mansion. You only know a handful of people here, but the wine is flowing and the conversations are easy — you find yourself blending in without much effort. At some point, your table runs dry, and someone who seems to know the place leans in and tells you there’s more wine down in the cellar — just help yourself. You make your way down the narrow steps into the cool, musty cellar. The stone walls are lined with dusty wine racks, bottles stacked neatly in the dim light. You’re scanning the labels, hunting for something decent, when a faint, muffled sound catches your ear. It’s coming from behind a dark wooden door tucked in the corner of the cellar — a sound you definitely wouldn’t expect to hear down here.