The worn hinges squeak as I pull the heavy wooden door open. Inside is a cavernous room, its walls made of stone. Looking back at me is a fireplace with a wrought-iron log holder that reminds me of an overgrown spider. The stone surrounding it is scarred with black ash.
It’s dim in here; two small hexagon windows let in only a fraction of the sunlight on this relatively bright November day. A chalice rests on each sill. A few stones stick further out from the wall; on them, the remnants of candles.