The reason I say the place is filled with people is that I can tell. If I were to touch a stone foot, I would feel the difference. The carved feet lack intricate details, especially those of the burial figurines; their feet are usually smooth. From the temperature, texture, and hardness, I would know just by touching it.
But this is a human foot because the toenails are long, and I can feel cracked skin; it is soft. At the very least, it belongs to a figurine made of stretched leather, but I cannot explain the broken toenails. No one would carve a stone figurine with toenails like this. I doubt my own perception; after all, it was just a fleeting moment. However, I am no longer as insecure as I used to be. After reflecting carefully, I feel confident that my senses are correct.
In the darkness around me, there are people standing close together, lined up, with dried skin and growing nails, just like the previous four grandfathers. These people must be dead. I retreat further into the darkness, my heart racing.
It is very quiet around me; my earlier actions have not triggered any reactions. I can almost envision rows of dried corpses beside me, likely clad in armor, covered in dust. I temporarily abandon the thought of reuniting with the fat guy; at this moment, my desire for light has reached its peak. I stand up, my whole body tingling, the hair on my back and cold sweat rising in waves, and I take a deep breath to calm myself. Reflecting on what I have done over the past ten years, gradually, the pressure around me becomes less daunting.
I stand up, feeling the turning of the key in my hand, and begin to move forward again. It is pitch black. If there is a belief that has sustained me over the past decade, it is this faint guidance at my fingertips. Compared to ten years of being unable to touch anything, this tiny pull is already a lot.
Light, I must have light.
I still have a wetsuit, a broken oxygen lamp, a brass key, and a metal dog tag. If I rub the dog tag against the ground quickly enough, it will create sparks. But these sparks may not be hot enough, and I do not have any tinder to start a fire.
Patience, I tell myself. The burial corpses nearby likely belong to nomadic people, and their bodies might contain burial tools like fire starters. As far as I know, most nomadic people have flint embedded in their belts.
If I move forward, I might touch something wooden. I have copper wire, and as long as there is wood, I can tear off the rope hanging the dog tag around my neck. The end of the rope will have cotton fluff that can serve as tinder.
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