The sides of the tunnel wall are supported every few feet by heavy stone pillars, which were hewn from the inner rock of the ridge a few hundred years ago. Frame had marveled at them, each at least twice as wide as she was. The hub within which she spent most of her life, was made by scorians, as a connecting point for a much larger network of highways and hallways. All this, explained by Frame’s mother, when Frame began to show an interest in history.
Thankfully, the earthquake hasn’t done much to damage the hanging lamps running along the ceiling. One of the tunnel’s builders must have realized there was a chance of an earthquake, and had reinforced whatever electrical system kept the lights linked together. Frame wishes they’d done more to reinforce the hub.
Something shakes and Frame hears the ridge groan.
She hurries forward, coming to a collapsed section ahead of her. Frame halts before the blockade of stone and concrete, gazing at the crumpled pieces of tunnel. The ground quivers under her feet, mumbling with increasing volume.
<Caw! I mean, find a way through!>
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