The mistake I made on the forty-fourth day was not caused by ignorance.
That is the part I have had the hardest time forgiving.
I knew what I was supposed to do.
My father had taught me.
I had followed his instructions for weeks.
But I was frightened of running out of time.
And fear made me behave as if the rules could be changed simply because I needed them to be.
After moving around the rock, I had returned to the direction of the well.
The soil ahead looked manageable.
The lantern burned steadily.
The wooden supports behind me remained firm.
For the first time in days, I could make progress without turning my body around an obstruction.
I should have been satisfied.
Instead, I began thinking about everything the detour had cost me.
Nine days.
I repeated that number whenever I looked at my marks.
Nine mornings.
Nine evenings.
Nine days closer to winter.
I could not stop calculating how far I might have advanced if the rock had not appeared.
I knew those calculations were useless.
The rock had been there whether I wanted it or not.
But I kept making them.
I began rising earlier.
I ate quickly.
I went underground before the morning light had fully reached the kitchen window.
Sometimes I continued digging until my hands were too tired to hold the shovel comfortably.
I told myself I was making up lost time.
At first, I still checked every support as carefully as before.
Then I began looking at the timber waiting beside the kitchen opening and thinking about how long fitting it would take.
I could remove more earth in that time.
I could advance another small distance.
I could fit the next support afterward.
That was how the mistake began.
Not with one great act of foolishness.
With a series of small excuses.
I had seen firm ground ahead.
I had worked through similar soil before.
I began trusting the appearance of the earth more than the method my father had taught me.
On the morning of the forty-fourth day, I crawled to the end of the passage carrying the shovel and lantern.
The last properly fitted support stood behind me.
There was room to advance.
I tested the soil.
It held well enough for the first few cuts.
I removed one bucket.
Then another.
The roof stayed in place.
I told myself I could continue a little farther before setting the next wooden frame.
There was nothing dramatic about the decision.
I simply kept digging.
That was what made it so dangerous.
I had grown accustomed to the tunnel.
The narrow walls no longer frightened me as they once had.
I knew how to move inside it.
I knew where to place the lantern.
I knew how to draw a loaded bucket backward without spilling too much soil.
I had begun feeling at home underground.
That familiarity made me careless.
I should have remembered that the earth was not more trustworthy because I had spent weeks beside it.
But I was thinking about the well.
I imagined touching its stones.
I imagined drawing water from beneath the kitchen.
I imagined the first snowfall arriving after I had already finished.
The thought made me work faster.
I dug into the face of the passage.
The shovel entered the soil more easily than expected.
I removed another load.
Then I heard a small sound overhead.
A crack.
I stopped.
For one moment, everything was quiet.
The lantern flame moved slightly.
I looked at the roof.
I could see a narrow line where the soil had separated.
My father had taught me what such a sound might mean.
I knew I should leave immediately.
But there was a bucket of earth beside me.
And the next support was not far behind.
I thought I might have time to pull the bucket away.
I reached for it.
Then another sound came from above.
Louder.
I dropped the handle.
I moved backward toward the last support.
The roof came down.
There was no time to understand what was happening.
Earth struck my shoulder.
Something hit the lantern.
The light disappeared.
Soil fell across my legs.
I tried to move.
I could not.
For several seconds, I heard only the sound of loose earth settling around me.
Then silence.
Complete darkness.
I remember holding my breath.
Not because I meant to.
Because I was afraid that breathing might make something else fall.
My heart was beating so hard that I could feel it in my throat.
I tried moving one foot.
It would not move.
I tried the other.
Both legs were trapped.
I reached down.
There was earth packed around my knees and lower legs.
I could still move my arms.
That was something.
I forced myself to notice it.
My hands were free.
My chest was not pinned.
I could breathe.
I was alive.
I repeated those facts silently because everything else frightened me.
I wanted to call for my father.
For one terrible moment, I almost did.
Then I remembered there was nobody inside the house.
Nobody waiting by the kitchen opening.
Nobody who would hear me from the village.
I was beneath the ground.
Alone.
I tried pulling my legs again.
The soil held them.
I felt pain in one knee.
I stopped.
Panic made me want to fight everything at once.
I wanted to kick.
I wanted to throw the soil away.
I wanted to crawl toward the kitchen.
But I knew uncontrolled movement might loosen more earth.
I forced my hands to work slowly.
I began clearing soil from around one leg.
There was very little room.
Every handful had to be moved somewhere.
I pushed it away from my body as carefully as I could.
Some of it fell back.
I tried again.
The darkness made everything harder.
Without the lantern, I could not judge how much earth remained above me.
I could only feel it.
I worked by touch.
My fingers found small stones.
I pulled them loose.
I pushed soil aside.
I tested my leg.
Still trapped.
My breathing became fast.
I stopped and tried to slow it.
I remembered the day the lantern flame had weakened.
I had learned how dangerous poor air could become.
Now I was trapped in a passage where the roof had fallen.
I did not know whether the ventilation would remain useful.
The thought frightened me more than the weight across my legs.
I kept clearing earth.
Minutes passed.
I could not measure them.
There was no light.
No movement beyond my hands.
I began to lose track of how long I had been there.
At one point, I started imagining the kitchen above me.
The table.
The bread.
The stone opening in the floor.
I had been sitting there that morning.
I had been thinking about breakfast.
Now I wondered whether I would ever see the room again.
I thought about my father against the fence.
Eleven paces from safety.
He had been close to home.
I was even closer in one sense.
The kitchen was behind me.
The path back existed.
But I could not reach it.
I had built a passage to avoid dying outside.
And now I might die beneath the house.
The thought made me feel sick.
I wanted to blame the rock.
The lost days.
Don Baltazar.
The people who laughed.
But none of them had told me to remove earth without proper support.
That had been my choice.
I knew better.
I had done it anyway.
I began clearing the soil again.
My hands grew numb.
Dirt filled the spaces beneath my fingernails.
Small stones scraped my fingers.
I found the edge of one knee.
Then part of my lower leg.
I tried shifting my weight.
A little soil moved.
I stopped immediately.
I waited to hear whether anything else would fall.
Nothing did.
I continued.
I could not free both legs at once.
I focused on one.
I pushed soil away from my ankle.
Then I pulled gently.
It moved a little.
I nearly cried with relief.
But the other leg remained buried.
I kept working.
At some point, I realized I was no longer thinking about winter.
Or the well.
Or the days I had lost.
There was only the next handful of earth.
The next movement.
The next breath.
All the things that had seemed urgent that morning had become meaningless.
I wanted to live long enough to crawl back into my kitchen.
That was all.
More than an hour passed before I managed to free the first leg completely.
I did not know the exact time.
I only knew I had been struggling for what felt like forever.
The second leg took more effort.
The soil had settled tightly around it.
I had to clear enough room to bend my knee.
When I finally pulled it loose, pain ran through both legs.
I lay still.
I was afraid to move.
Then I reached behind me.
My hand found the side of the passage.
I turned carefully.
The tunnel toward the kitchen remained open.
I could feel the wooden support behind me.
I had stopped moving backward only a short distance before reaching it.
That realization hurt.
If I had left when I heard the first crack, I might have been safe.
If I had fitted the support before advancing, the roof might not have fallen.
I did not know every detail of what had happened above me.
But I knew enough.
I crawled toward the kitchen.
My legs shook.
The passage seemed narrower than ever.
I kept one hand against the wall.
I was afraid that if I stopped moving, I would lose the courage to continue.
Eventually, I reached the opening.
There was daylight above.
I had never been so grateful to see an ordinary patch of kitchen floor.
I pulled myself up.
Then I collapsed beside the opening.
For a long time, I could not stand.
I lay with my cheek against the cold stone.
My clothes were covered with soil.
My knees hurt.
My hands were torn.
I was breathing fresh air.
I was alive.
That should have been enough.
But after the first relief passed, I began shaking.
I could not stop.
I looked down into the passage.
The darkness frightened me.
Not because it was unfamiliar.
Because I now knew exactly what could happen inside it.
I had built most of that tunnel with my own hands.
I had trusted those supports.
Then I had ignored the need for another one.
The result lay underground, covering the place where I had been kneeling.
I sat up slowly.
The kitchen looked unchanged.
The table stood where I had moved it.
My tools remained beside the opening.
The window showed the same yard.
Outside, the well waited.
Everything ordinary was still there.
Only I had changed.
I washed my hands with difficulty.
The water stung the cuts.
I tried to stand.
My legs trembled.
I sat down again.
That evening, I did not return underground.
I did not even approach the opening.
I moved the tools away from its edge.
Then I sat near the hearth with a blanket around my shoulders.
I was cold despite the fire.
I kept remembering the crack overhead.
The sudden darkness.
The soil pressing against my legs.
Whenever the house made a small noise, I turned toward the floor.
I knew that was not reasonable.
But I could not help it.
The next morning, I woke with aching muscles.
There were bruises on my legs.
My hands were swollen.
I looked at the tunnel.
Then I looked away.
I told myself I would work again after breakfast.
Breakfast came.
I did not move.
I tried sorting tools instead.
I arranged the wooden supports.
I checked the rope.
I swept soil from the kitchen floor.
Anything except going down.
At midday, I stood beside the opening.
I put one foot near the edge.
Then I remembered the roof falling.
I stepped back.
I was ashamed.
I had endured weeks of hard work.
I had faced ridicule.
I had learned to solve problems underground.
Now I could barely bring myself to climb into the passage I had made.
I told myself that fear was sensible after what had happened.
But another part of me whispered that Don Baltazar had been right.
Perhaps I was not capable of finishing.
Perhaps my father had taught me the skills, but not enough judgment.
Perhaps a girl alone should not attempt such dangerous work.
I hated thinking those things.
I hated that I was beginning to use the same words other people had used against me.
The second day passed much like the first.
I checked my injuries.
I tended the fire.
I ate carefully.
I went outside to the well because the house still needed water.
Every step across the yard reminded me why I had begun.
But the memory was no longer enough to send me underground.
I stood beside the fence for a while.
I looked at the place where my father had fallen.
Then I looked back toward the house.
For the first time, I understood that courage was not simply continuing.
Sometimes it meant admitting how badly you had frightened yourself.
I had nearly died because I tried to save time.
If I returned to the tunnel, I could not return as the same impatient person.
I would need to rebuild the damaged section.
I would need stronger supports.
I would need to accept that the work might take longer than I wanted.
And I would need to stop pretending I could do everything without help.
That final thought was the hardest.
My father had always been the person who helped me.
Since his death, I had treated asking anyone else as something close to surrender.
I had wanted to prove I could manage alone.
Now I was beginning to see how dangerous that pride had become.
On the evening of the second day, I sat at the kitchen table.
The opening in the floor remained dark.
I had not touched the shovel.
There was a knock at the door.
I thought it might be Jacinta.
I stood carefully and went to answer.
But when I opened it, Don Baltazar was standing outside.
He looked past me toward the kitchen.
Then he looked at my bruised hands.
His expression told me he had already heard something.
I had not told the village about the collapse.
But the mound of earth had stopped growing.
I had not been seen working.
And Don Baltazar had always been watching for evidence that my plan would fail.
He asked whether he could come inside.
I did not want him there.
I was too tired to argue.
So I stepped aside.
He entered and looked toward the open floor.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then he put his hand inside his coat.
I knew what he was reaching for.
The same cloth bag.
The same offer.
Only this time, I was sitting in a kitchen with an unfinished tunnel and two days of fear behind me.
And he knew it.
