The squeaking hinges, the gust of cool air that came up from the hole, the slant of light that fell just to the midpoint of the stairwell, all made her feel ill.
There was no physical sign, only the memory but that often remains even sharper, unfaded by sunlight or ground smooth and featureless by sand blown by the wind.
She covered him with his own blanket, pulling it over his face, now serene. The eyes she left open, feeling them pierce her flesh through the darkness, the blanket, the trapdoor as she closed it above him.
For a moment she closed her eyes, rested her bones as a stab of familiar pain coursed through her breast.