Lena was twenty-four years old and on night duty at the museum for the first time. The city's Museum of Common Things smelled of dust, metal and long-held silence. She loved the labels, the order and the fact that things lent themselves to description. However, she had heard a rumour that after midnight, objects speak to those who listen. She smiled at the thought of fairy tales, put down her notebook and checked the lock of the display cabinets. After twelve o'clock, all that was left was the buzzing of the ventilation and the green dots of the exit signs. The clock in the hall measuring the age of the city stopped quietly at thirty-three minutes. Something rustled in the memorial torch cabinet, then a cracked teacup sounded. Lena pushed back the curtain and heard a short whisper coming from under the thick night glass. - 'It's cold,' muttered the torch, which had not been switched on for twenty-five years. - 'Take notes,' said the teacup, 'because memory sometimes leaks faster than glaze.' A brass compass vibrated in a wooden box and the needle pointed in a direction that wasn't here. First, something rattled in the corner of the technician's room, as if someone was practising a rhythm with their fingers. The typewriter in the case dropped its flap, the trolley shifted, the tape whistled. Letters appeared on a white sheet of paper, even, all the more alien at this hour. L E N A, then the numbers: thirteen dot one hundred and thirteen, written down without hesitation. - This was not in the plan,' she whispered, but her fingers were already touching the case. - The case disappeared from the list, the sign is there and the reality is missing - the teacup rang. The compass murmured: - Left, not right, where north frowns. Lena found an inventory card from this issue, stroked in pencil in the margin. Someone had written: entered dawn without sender, do not open until explained. At the foot of the bookcase stood a box made of oak planks, reinforced with a strip of dark steel. The cord seemed fresher than the rest, as if someone had replaced it absentmindedly. The torch flashed three flashes, just like the letters S O S on an old placard. Inside the museum, there suddenly seemed to be more directions than the evacuation plan allowed. She picked up a bunch of keys and walked back, taking steps that sounded foreign on the linoleum. A night radio was playing in the security booth, but the doorman was asleep with his book open. Lena crouched by the crate and lifted the lid a hand's width. It smelled of salt, rust and something that resembled wet matches from a bonfire. Deep inside, something knocked evenly, like a clock that prefers to be silent under someone else's hand. - 'Just a little bit,' the machine asked, 'and we can finally start talking louder. The screws pulled under Lena's fingers until one of the wheels groaned and spun. Suddenly, the emergency lights went out and only one came on, above C magazine. A new line appeared on the paper in the machine: NOT ALONE, FOLLOW THE VOICE. The wood of the crate rustled like a shell, the compass turned and pointed down a dark corridor. And then the lift, which she had not summoned, stopped on her floor with a single sound. Someone or something stood just outside the door, and the crate vibrated from the internal, impatient tapping.