I run my fingers along the outline of what I now know is a door. There’s no handle or hinges that I can see, so the door must open inward. I push against it, but it doesn’t give. I lean in with all my weight, my shoes sliding on the ground, digging scar marks into the earth.

The door opens.

It’s dark inside.

The door doesn’t want to open more than a crack, and I have to squeeze myself inside. With the sliver of light from the Feeder Level pouring into the darkness, I can see a bigger handle on the side of the door, a stamped metal floor, a covered box on the wall at eye level.

And stairs.

I push against the inside of the door with all my weight, and the three-inch thick door crashes shut. For a moment, I panic and tug against the giant handle until the door opens back up a crack, allowing me to catch a whiff of grass and dirt from the Feeder Level. I can get back out. I sigh in relief and push the door shut again.

It’s empty and silent here. I breathe deeply, and notice the sound of my presence more than the taste of dust and stale air.

I can see nothing through the inky darkness. I fumble in the dark, patting the cool metal wall until I stub my fingers against the raised plastic of the covered box I saw embedded in the wall before I shut the door. The cover lifts up on hinges at the top, and under that I find a light switch similar to the ones I remember from Earth. I should have assumed that the lights would operate like this—this whole area is part of the ship’s original design.

But it’s not an overhead light that flicks on; instead, the stairs start to glow. My feet thud hollowly on the metal floor as I draw closer. Tiny LED lights race up the railings on either side of the stairs, and a thin row of lights mark the front of each step. The lights are encased in plastic tubing, almost like outdoor Christmas lights.

My mind stops.

Before, if I thought Christmas, I would have remembered my past on Earth and would have succumbed to the aching sadness for a life I can never have again.

Now, I can think the word and not feel anything but a dull ache, a phantom pain for a part of my life that’s been amputated.