Mila was returning from her school studio in the late afternoon when the wind from the harbour shuddered against the signs. She kept her sketchbook under her jacket, as if it could catch the warmth that the city lacked. Above the warehouses hung cranes, resembling giant birds that had forgotten how to soar. In her mind she had an image that refused to be named, just shimmering like a constantly restless wave. The art teacher had announced a competition: Imagine the city, no limits, risk and idea and courage count. Mila looked at the blank pages and felt that anything she drew would be too cautious. In the library she came across an old map of the harbour, a mysterious mark was circled in pencil in the margin. Next to the circle someone had annotated two letters: PW, and underneath the words Point of View. In the evening, she drew on the back of her sketchbook a narrow doorway in the alley behind the Neptun cinema. The lines laid themselves out as if someone was guiding her hand, quietly skimming over the paper. When she finished, the page was warm, and underneath the drawing was a sentence she hadn't written. "Don't draw it if you're afraid to look". - The letters rippled until there was a rustle in the doorway. The next day she met Kacper, who was collecting the sounds of the city, recording the echo of footsteps and the flutter of flags. She gave him a look at the sketch and he said he could hear a quiet, metallic pulse from it. So they went to the alley at dusk, when the street was gently fading and seagulls circled above the chimney. All they noticed on the wall was a thin trail of chalk, perfectly consistent with the drawing, as if someone had practised opening it. As Mila touched the line, a coldness passed through her, and the neon sign above the cinema blinked like an eyelid. A thin silver thread slipped out of the sketchbook, connecting her fingers to the paper and the invisible hinge of the wall. The pages began to flip over of their own accord, revealing more versions of the door, until the chalky crevice gaped slightly. There was a whiff of salt and electricity, someone on that side knocked three times, and the stone handle jutted out of the bricks. Kacper lifted the microphone very carefully, and the pulse formed the letters PW on the recorder screen. The city quietened like a hall before a play, and even the seagulls hovered, holding the air on their wings. It's just imagination, Mila whispered, but the wall was breathing, and the door handle twitched like skin touched by a whisper. Behind the door, someone said her name and asked her to open it, and her fingers tightened on the cold metal alone.