In an abandoned observatory by the river, where the sun drew pale streaks on the bricks, Kaja unfolded papers. She was studying graphic design and liked the silence here, which sounded like the breath of a large telescope. The iron staircase creaked as she brought in a thermos of tea and a tube of drawings. That afternoon she was looking for a clever perspective for a poster, but her thoughts were going somewhere else. Under the table she found a flat brass case without a lock, as if left in a hurry. On the lid someone had etched the words Atlas of the Imagination and a tiny symbol of a wavy line. Inside lay a black-bound volume, thick and smelling of ozone and rain over concrete. The pages were smooth, yet she could feel textures under her fingers that she could not see. Before she had time to think anything, the pencil itself, without hesitation, found the beginning of a line in the margin. She drew a narrow staircase that could not exist in any building, as it turned upwards and sideways at the same time. The ink traveled thinly over the edge of the drawing, as if it was patiently exploring its boundaries and slowing down its speed. The air in the dome vibrated and she felt that the staircase in the drawing had weight. In the margins appeared a fine grid and coordinates she did not know from any map. Next to it was written the word: Entrance, followed by a short sentence, as if from a foreign manual: Two minds needed, same image. Kaja laughed nervously, but at that moment the old field phone against the wall rang in a single, deafening tone. It hadn't been plugged in for years, yet the green light flashed like a cat's eye. She picked up the receiver and heard a whisper, soft as chalk on a blackboard, but sure. Someone was describing the same staircase, step by step, as if reading her thoughts from the other end of an invisible bridge. Kaja sat down at the atlas and added a handrail, feeling her hand guided by a stranger's hand, parallel, from the other side of the paper. A river rustled in the dome, though the windows were closed, and tiny white crumbs began to float in streaks of light. They smelled of plaster and fresh rainwater, forming the outline of a door on the wall opposite the telescope. The door had no hinges or doorframe, just a pencil-drawn arch and a simple handle. Kaja looked at her own sketch, then at the wall, comparing each line with the shadow. The whisper in the headphone spoke her name once more, this time in her own voice, a few years older. She reached for the door handle when suddenly someone from inside pressed it first, firmly.