go
do
Your family bought the farm cheap, and the deed says why, if you read the schedule at the back: there is a door in the hill, and it conveys with the land. The seller's letter asks — begs — that you brick it up.
The soil is black and grows anything. The luck is another matter. Each generation, one of you will go down. Whoever dies down there stays — where they fell, with what they carried — and the next of kin inherits the door, the debts, and the map your dead make.
One tomb, persistent forever. Light is dynastic. Chalk is how you talk to your children.
The vocabulary is fixed. What you can say to whoever stands here after you is exactly this.