Maya was fourteen years old and on duty for the first time in the school storage room. It was called Things Found, although it sounded a bit like the title of a horror film. The basement corridor smelled of dust and the neon sign blinked like a tired chameleon's eye. The shelves were piled with doom: pairless socks, bidons, games, old calculators. Maja had a padlock key and a list, which she pulled like a snake. She hoped for silence, because after the new school she craved peace and quiet more than a candy bar. As she closed the door, she heard a quiet whisper, as if someone was practising counting breaths. - 'Hey, watch out for the spring,' hoarsely whispered the alarm clock with its cracked glass and crooked pointer. - Has anyone seen my pencil family? - sobbed a lone fountain pen. Even the rollers drummed against the cardboard as if they wanted to high-five the soles. The desk lamp blinked a brown eye and the eraser skittered sleepily like a cat. Maja sat up in her chair until she knew she wasn't dreaming. - 'I can hear you,' she said quietly, 'but speak one at a time or we'll get lost. The calculator beeped a result that looked like a code, and the radio snorted interference. - 'Closet number seven,' whispered the tape measure, 'there lies the key that won't admit you. - To what? - Maja asked, feeling curiosity pulling at her like a magnet. - 'One at a time, please,' she asked, taking out a notebook as if she were teaching a class for inspection. The pen outlined a single line by itself, as straight as a thread on a map. A casket with a worn-out coat of arms, enchanted by its own silence for years, answered. - 'To a place that steals memories,' she whispered, 'and doesn't quite give back what it takes away.' The compass on the shelf trembled and pointed to the corner of the room where cabinet seven stood. A lock glinted in the neon light, and a brass key she had found buzzed in Mai's pocket. - Stop! - shouted the pencil sharpener - when the clock struck thirteen-thirteen, everything would wake up. The writing inside the lid flicked as she moved her finger, like the reflection of a lurking torch. Outside, the storm fluttered rain against the windows and the corridor grew narrower. The school clock above the door groaned, the hands rasped and stopped at exactly 1:13 p.m. At the same moment, something struck the number seven cupboard, as if with a fist. The key in her fingers warmed up, and her name was whispered from the other side of the door. The corridor drew in air, and all the items on the shelves were suddenly silent at once.