HIDING

The stories were old. The fear was not.

Her childhood was filled with stories about the places they hid.

The slats beneath the floorboards.

False backs in closets.

Barrels smuggled through alleys.

Children curled into silence.

She learned how walls could open if you knew where to press.

How furniture could be hollowed.

How names could vanish with the right papers.

How hope could travel in whispers.

Half a century later, those stories still lived in her bones.

They moved through her blood like memory, settling somewhere between her head and heart.

Now, in the quiet dark of night,
she lies awake,
mapping the rooms in her mind,
counting how long she can hold her breath,
and wondering,

where she will hide
when they come.