The railing slid and locked with a clang. Someone pushed the green button and the platform began its long ascent. By a secret, tacit agreement we all kept silent, our eyes strained to catch a last glimpse of the shaft. There was nothing to see, of course. The rough walls were black and dull, the coal absorbed all the light of our lamps. Yet, every so often, a small impurity in the seam flashed like a jewel lost in a sea of dross.

The voyage seemed to last hours, though we knew it was only a matter of minutes. Usually, we all were anxious to reach the surface as fast as possible, but today it was different. No one felt in a hurry. No one had the guts to speak. Each took comfort in the silence of the others. And as we left the coal kingdom and went up through the more mundane, lighter limestone layers, we all turned our gaze down.

At last, we emerged into the sunny world above, and the platform lurched to a stop. The director himself had come to greet us. We exited the hoist one by one, and he shook our grimy hands solemnly, nodding at each of us, a dour smile on his face.

Not a word was pronounced.

It had rained the night before, and we plodded through the mud and the puddles to our old barracks. We switched our lamps off, removed our helmets, took off our threadbare suits, so caked in crud that it was hardly possible to tell their original colour, and stowed them carefully into the lockers. We then proceeded to the showers, welcoming for the last time the stroke of hot water and soap suds on our gnarled skins. Once we were purified, we walked back to the lockers room to don our civilian outfits.

Wordlessly.

Our next stop was the reception hall, where a rostrum had been installed, and, lining the walls, a couple of makeshift trestle tables jury-rigged and covered in paper towel. Glasses and bottles were scattered over them. To the right of the rostrum, a shoddy jazz band thrummed a humdrum riff smuggled from the United States.

It had been agreed that the oldest of us would deliver a short speech in the name of all miners, followed by the director. But as the senior clambered onto the rostrum, all he could sputter was a lonely “Dear” before he flopped down onto the chair, face buried in his hands, sobbing. Two comrades ran to him, helped him stand up and out of the room.

All that was heard was the shuffling and the snuffling.

The director ascended in turn, cleared his throat, took the floor and spoke words nobody listened to. Maybe about the past, maybe about the slump, there was no way to tell, as his voice banged against a wall of numbness. His final sentence was followed by meagre applause, and we all drifted away from the room, indifferent to the bottles that were left forlorn.

We boarded the bus that was used to bringing us home, grunting a simple ‘hi’ to the driver. When we crossed the main entrance, a few of us waved goodbye to the guards that watched over the gate day and night. They weren’t exactly of our kin, they had never ventured into the innards of the Earth, but they would soon end up on the dole, too.

The bus reached town hall’s square, pulled over into the parking lot and we got out, one by one, and walked away, not even bothering to say goodbye to one another. No question to gather around a beer at the pub, either. There would be ample time for that later. We had an eternity laid out ahead of us, an eternity to drown in tears, memories and booze.

I shambled down the grey cobble streets under a cold drizzle, passing by the terraced houses, so identical one to the other that more than once, back from a Friday's evening drinking binge, one had ended the night sprawled in the living room of another’s, until I reached the threshold of my own house. For a long time I stood here, unmoving, facing the front door. I hadn’t realised it’d be so hard to turn home. At last, though, I turned the handle with a shaking hand and stepped into the vestibule.

“Kids!? Darling?” I shouted. “I’m back!”

Hell had only begun.