First the smell of the storm returned before the first drop fell. In Nela Barcik's studio, in the attic above the narrow street, the glues breathed the remnants of summer and the leather of freshly sewn backs held the warmth of other people's stories. The windows bent in the wind and for a second the world outside the glass turned into a wave that swept down on the city. Nela pushed back the thread reel and picked up a piece of parchment from the tabletop, checking that the ink had already set. It was a Tuesday, late in the evening, and she had the feeling that time was standing at the doorframe like an uninvited guest who pretended only to look in. It wasn't until the doorbell rang that the sound of the doorbell descended from her eyes and broke into her ears, dry as the snap of a broken twig. On the threshold stood a man in a rust-coloured coat, his hood dripping with fresh rain. He held a bundle wrapped in rough cloth, tied with green cord. He bowed without a word, took two steps in and only then lifted his gaze. "Mrs Barcik?" "Yes." "I've been told that you can hear what the book is saying to you." "I can hear the cracks and strains of the paper. That's usually enough." Nela smiled thinly. "Can I help you?" The man placed the bundle on the table in the cool light of the lamp. The canvas immediately drank in the light and something beneath it vibrated, as if a quiet breath. Nela, despite herself, withdrew her hand. "It's a book to be bound. Security, two layers, reinforced spine. No animal glue - just compounds you make yourself. And... one more thing." His fingers stopped on the green string. "You mustn't open it before midnight." "And why do you bring something that can't be looked at?" "To have time before the thing arrives anyway." No smile appeared. There was no prank in that sentence, yet the walls seemed to raise an eyebrow. From the corridor came the clatter of wind against the stairs. Nela felt the disappointment of the craftsman - that she couldn't look immediately - but she also felt the old scratch of curiosity somewhere in her sternum. "I'll leave an advance." The man placed a velvet bag on the tabletop. The weight hit the wood with a dull sound that rumbled through the drawers. When Nela opened the material, she saw balls of amber. Some had specks inside, as if someone had hidden storm dust in them. "Who sent you?" The man removed his hood. His hair was the colour of wet ash and his eyebrows were thick and straight, like lines on a map. "Someone who remembers that your aunt's name was Vera Barcikowa." The aunt's name cut through the air like a thin nib across fresh paper. Nela said nothing. The man nodded, turned and left, with a light, disproportionately quiet step for someone with such a heavy coat. The door closed behind him, and the storm resumed its conversation with the roof. When Nela was left alone, she leaned over and touched the canvas. The material was damp, but the chill that clung to her fingers smelled of sea fennel and ozone, not rain. The green cord had no knot, yet it held the pack more securely than a knot - it wove itself into the weaves of the canvas like a stem into a harp. The clock above the door showed 10:18 p.m. The workshop was clean but not sterile; the order of a craftsman who likes to have everything at hand. On the windowsill stood a bottle of thick glass with a seagull feather in it. Next to the bowl of chalk and ointment lay Nela's bracelet - a thin string with an amber ball that she had received from her aunt many years ago. She used to take it off to work. Now she suddenly longed to have it on her wrist. She put the bracelet on and sat down. She took a breath and put her ear to the pack. In this strange job she had learnt to put her cheek on things, as one puts one's hand on a child's forehead. She listened. First there was silence, deep and even, and underneath it - an echo. Not of her own heart, not of the clock. As if, inside, someone was turning very thin pages, with such attentiveness that the sound became a whisper. 10:43 p.m., 11:17 p.m. The storm rolled hard over the city, occasionally showing white bones of cloud. Nela sipped her cold tea and took notes as she always did: the state of the paper without looking, the weight, the temperature of the material, the smell. She smiled to herself at this last item. "The smell: like the beach in winter, when even the seagulls speak more quietly." The phone vibrated. Iwo. "Are you in the studio?" "I am. And are you still at the wharf?" "At the Institute. We've got something strange. The tides are behaving as if someone wants to turn the tables. The curves are going up and there's no moon to justify it. I think you'd better close the windows today." "Since when do you warn me about the wind?" "Since when does water look for roads that aren't on the map." Iwo was silent for a second. "Listen, Nela. Do you remember the amber ball from Aunt Vera?" "I have it on my hand." "Good. Don't take it off. If anything... if you feel something pulling inside, call me." "What's supposed to be pulling in deep?" "Everything." And he hung up like someone who wants to add something more, but chose to remain silent. At 23:58 Nela stood up. She moved the lamp closer. The clock, cheeky in its ticking, leapt with the certainty of leaden shoes. Outside, the bell from the church sounded, one, two, three - as many as nine, ten, eleven. Twelve took a breath. She yanked a green cord with her fingernail and... it wasn't a cord. It was a vein. She shuddered, and the tremor traveled down her hand to her elbow, like an echo of hitting water. The canvas untied itself; not the way a knot is untied, but the way evening eyelids open. Beneath it rested a book. Its spine was reinforced, although no stitching was visible. The cover, made of a dark material reminiscent of eel skin, glistened, not with wetness, but with luminous moisture. A wave shape was embossed on the front, no letters, no title, turning back. Nela brushed the edge. Instead of dusty dust, she felt a chill, the same chill that rises from the water when there is a current coming from the bottom. The bracelet on her wrist lit up for a moment with a pale, honey-coloured light. "Thank you, Auntie," she thought, and surprised herself that it did. She opened the book. The first page was blank. The second - also. The fourth was thicker, as if someone had hidden another layer between the paper. Nela turned the pages carefully, listening; every few pages the ink beneath the surface moved like plankton turning to light. On the seventh page she saw a drawing. Her hand first recognised what her eyes were still guessing: a plan. Not a city, not a river - something beneath them. A network of corridors and voids that wriggled under the cobblestones like the roots of a very old tree. In the place where the legend should have been stood three words, imprinted so that she could feel them with her fingertips: "Archive of Silence - The Gate". No ink had been used. The letters were like nail marks in the soft wood. Before she could touch the name, someone knocked on the door. Three short, one long, one short. Iwo. "Open up!" - he called out before she had time to turn the key. He rushed inside with his jacket slung over his shoulder and his bag slung over his chest. He was flushed. His eyes were brighter than usual, shining like shards of glass. "Don't close the shutters. Let them have their way." "Who?" "Anything that doesn't want to move on land." He stopped when he saw the book. He pulled a small bottle of water from his bag. Inside, though it stood calmly on his hand, small bubbles floated downwards, as if gravity had reversed. Iwo placed the bottle next to the book. The bubbles immediately began to climb its walls the way seaweed seeks light. "That's her," he said quietly. "As in Vera. I thought it was gone." "What?" "Paths that remember the first current." Nela wanted to joke that the first electricity was the one from the socket, but she bit her tongue. She closed her eyes. The workshop became denser, although nothing had arrived. With a quiet click, the spindle stopped by itself, even though no one had touched it. A drawer slid out of the cupboard, that millimetre missing to know that someone had touched it. "Have you been reading?" "I just looked." Nela turned the book towards him. "See. The plan under the town. There's a sign." The sign was simple: a dot in a circle, in a place that on the city map corresponded to the old cranes by the river. The word "Gate" was flickering, though it had nothing. Iwo swallowed his saliva. "If this is what Vera was talking about, we can't go alone." "And who should we go with? With the man in the rust-coloured cloak?" As if at these words, Nela's bracelet grew warmer, and a fine dust fell from the end of the green cord that still lay on the table. It scattered in the shape of a line, running from the tabletop to the door, from the door to the window, from the window to the windowsill, before hovering over the water bottle. It cracked silently and the water began to tremble until a thread, as thin as a hair, rose from the bottom and stretched towards the book. "Don't touch it," Iwo said, though Nela didn't even flinch. They both watched as the thread of water merged with the edge of the paper. Where she touched, the ink came to life, crawled into the margins and began to form letters. Their own names, one next to the other, and underneath them - the date. Today's. "I don't like paper making plans for me," Nela muttered, but her heart leapt for another reason. There was a new smell in the air. Not a storm. Not the sea. Cold brick, forgotten steps down, a corridor that no one had walked in a long time. The smell of places that remember steps better than people. "We have to go," Iwo said. "Before the water itself comes here." "And if it comes while we're gone?" "It might want to come in through you." He turned back to the window. "He likes what has an open door." She smiled nervously. "You are exceptionally poetic today." "I have no use for it. Look." A cat sat on the outside windowsill. He was almost all white, but there were thin grey streaks spilling down his back, like the shadows of waves on sand. He had eyes the colour of sea plants and demonstrated the patience of someone who waits for people to understand what animals know immediately. When Nela rolled down the window, he didn't run away. He shook off the rain and stepped inside, silently. He stopped at the book. He put his paw in the margin, exactly where the map ended, and looked at Nela as if asking: "Ready?" Nela reached for her coat, but hung it up again. For a fraction of a second her knees became cold, as cold as if she had climbed a high ladder and realised how much air was beneath her. She took the bracelet with her fingers, felt the warmth of her aunt's skin, though after all it was only a memory. She walked over to the mirror above the sink, took a quick glance: her face a little paler than usual, but her eyes - stubborn. "Let's go," she said. The lamp had gone out. Not because the electricity was out - the bulb still had the power and the will. But the light receded, as if someone had rolled it up and tucked it away for later. In this new darkness, the book shone. Not with a harsh glow, but with a soft, amber light that knew the way between one breath and the next. The cat jumped off the table. The door opened of its own accord. From the stairwell blew the cold of a cellar that wasn't here. The staircase clattered two floors below, although no one was coming down it. Nela grabbed Iwa by the sleeve. She heard something else, something very quiet but certain: a scraping. Not from the street, not from behind the door. From somewhere inside the table it knocked. Three short, one long, one short. And then, just beneath their hands, the book opened itself in the middle, and from the darkness between the pages someone removed a hand.