On a Monday afternoon the rain tapped against the kitchen windowsill. Maja was eleven and her socks were wet when she returned. Mum was working in the next room and whispering into her headphones. The flat smelled of toast and soap. A chipped dragon cup waited on the table for her. Maja poured the tea and watched the bag swirl. Bright letters floated on the surface, as if written in milk. The mug had been able to do this for a long time, but only with her. His usual advice was simple: "Take an umbrella." "Check your pockets." Today the words were arranged more strangely. First: "Open the spoon drawer." Then: "Third fork from the left." Maja obeyed. Under the fork lay a wrapped paper. She unfolded a map of the kitchen with a dot marked next to the breadbox. "You see that?" she whispered to herself. The kettle beeped her name, as if to confirm. Maja moved the breadbox and discovered a narrow crack in the countertop. A small bell was stuck inside, cool and silver as a husk. Another sentence appeared on the tea: "Call when you hear footsteps." She almost laughed, but then Mum's radio alarm clock went silent. The flat became quiet, with only the pipes muttering. In the corridor, someone was making soft footsteps. Two, three, a pause. The doorknob vibrated, though no one rang the doorbell. Maja tightened her fingers on the doorbell. "Hello, Mummy?" she called out quietly. There was no answer from the next room, only a whisper through the headphones. Another word, clearer than the rest, flowed out over the tea: "Now." Maja lifted the bell and took in a breath.