Pandora is not allowed in the basement.

It is the one rule that she must always follow. Her midnight slides down the roof and daring escapades are often met with her parent's laughter and sister's rolling eyes.

The rule about the basement is the only one they take seriously. If she steps near it, she is scolded. 

Her parents are allowed in the basement. So is her sister. Pandora asks if they will let her in when she gets older. They say Maybe one day. She does not trust this. Sometimes, when everyone is out of the house, she sneaks towards the basement and tries to peer through the crack under the door. All she sees is darkness. 

Pandora is almost 16 now. The same age her sister was when they let her in. So she thinks that her turn is coming too. It's only fair. She is lying to herself, of course. She knows perfectly well that she will never be allowed in the basement. Her parents and sister creep down there every morning in their snowy white coats with excitement in their eyes. She sees them from the staircase, where she sits alone, wondering what they are doing without her. They do not need her there, she thinks. They do not want her there. They do not want her at all.

Something else wants her in the basement, though. She hears it at night, whispering faintly. Pandora it sings. Come in, my dear. I want to see you. She cannot help thinking that whatever is in there must be incredibly precious for them to hide it from her. Perhaps they are afraid she will steal it. Pandora often steals things or rather sneaks them away to her room to admire them. She is swift of foot and deft of hand. Her hands slip in and out of her pockets with ease. She can crack open most locks with nothing but a toothpick. Her family does not care. Even when the neighbors complain, or she is expelled from school, they do not care. They call her their little crow, and then they disappear into the basement. There is life in their pale faces. There is a spark in their eyes. Curiosity. Excitement. They whisper about it at dinner. Or they don't. After all, they seldom eat dinner with her at all.

She tells her friend Epimetheus about the basement. He urges her to look inside. His honeyed words are both convincing and cloying. He wants to know too. So do his parents. They are ever curious, ever nosy. Still, she considers him a friend. If only because her family doesn't like him, and they so seldom deign to consider her long enough to disapprove. Or perhaps it is because they are kind to her. Epimetheus weaves her crowns of hawthorn and his parents send her garlic bread every week. They are the only ones who seem to mind what she does. Still, she pretends she doesn't need any of it. Pretends she doesn't need anyone or anything. Just in case.

In the end, it is neither the voices nor Epimetheus that persuade her to venture into the unknown. It is his older brother, who tuts at them just as her sister does and acts as if he is too worldly to concern himself with their antics. Prometheus. He tells her that opening the door will have grave consequences. He acts as if he can see into the future. As if he is dead certain. She hates it. Hates him. She is willing to open the door just to spite Prometheus. Just to prove him wrong, or prove that she does not care about what he says any more than he cares about her.

She makes quick work of the basement locks. She is disappointed to be met with a set of stairs much like the ones going up to the second floor. She descends, slowly, carefully, savoring the anticipation like the last bite of a rare fruit. She has learned from her rendezvous that the first click of the lock, the first taste of treasure is always the sweetest. After the first, many go on merely to chase that feeling again. They will never find it. 

At the end of the stairs, she finds a door. It is locked a dozen times over. She feels the adrenaline racing through her veins now. She is ready. She closes her eyes, and she opens the door.

She blinks.

She sees it.

And it's over.