Lena lived on the fourth floor of a block of flats by the river, in her grandmother's flat. Every day she returned late from the estate library, where she stacked books and changed worn-out signatures. A kettle waited at home, a worn-out one with a porcelain handle cracked like the line of a hand. At 10.10pm it always whistled the same tune, the one Grandma hummed over croissants. The clock in the kitchen was two minutes late, but made up for it at dawn, as if it had rested during the night. Lena first recognised this as the vagaries of old age, then began to set the kettle as if on an agreed signal. One Tuesday, she found a ticket for the night tram on the estate board, stuck underneath an advertisement for a lost lanyard. On the back someone had written: "For Lena, for later". She turned around abruptly, but the stairwell was empty, only the light blinking belatedly. At home, the ticket lay on the table next to the cup, and the letters on it trembled slightly, as if breathing. Instead of the line number, there was a circle and the word 'Remembered'. The kettle whistled out of sequence, short and firm. At one o'clock in the morning the city was hushed, wet with sprinklers and the promise of a cool day. Lena stood by the bus stop, hearing the rasp of old rails in the distance. A line in the yellow stripe finally appeared on the board: "0 - direction: remembered". The tram pulled up like a childhood memory, wooden, with metal handrails gleaming from her hands. She got on, slid the ticket into the ticket counter; the device reflected the date and added: "valid when you believe". The motorman looked in the mirror and nodded his chin. Inside, two lads with backpacks were sleeping, and a lady with a net was counting coins that didn't sound like metal. The windows showed no streets, just kitchens and rooms, as if a wagon was gliding through the flats. In one kitchen someone was spilling milk, in another a girl was drawing a map of poppies on a table. Suddenly she saw her own kitchen: the kettle was steaming, although she was here, not there. She reached for her phone, but the screen remained black, like a mirror before sleep. The motorman said quietly: "The pictures don't catch what's here." The tram came to a halt at the 'Once upon a time' stop, then the 'Next day' stop, and between them he was silent, like someone collecting his thoughts. A purr came from the loudspeaker, curling with the steam and complaint of the rails; she recognised the crooning tune. She felt two minutes missing, the ones from the kitchen clock that always disappear somewhere. The ticket trembled in her fingers and formed a new sentence: 'Get off if you want to recover the lost minutes'. Lena thought of the missed phone call, the poppyseed recipe that no one had written down. Her fingers found the doorbell by themselves. The tram sped up, the lights twinkled with a rhythm that could have been the alphabet and breath at the same time. The inscription of the next stop flicked in the glass, vague at first, as if unwilling to reveal itself. The motorman looked at her in the mirror, not pressing the brake but releasing his hand as if asking for a decision. The bell under her hand trembled and the metal of the door responded with warmth. The inscription flashed clearly over the tracks, as bright as morning bread: 'Still You Can'.