Stone Street smelled of gingerbread and a freshly cut Christmas tree. Nela was peeling oranges, the peels curled like ribbons. Grandma was humming a carol, stirring borscht in a big enamel pot. Outside the window, snow swirled as if someone was shaking a huge ball. Dad was clearing the snow from the path, tapping his shovel rhythmically, like a very patient metronome. The postman had left a strange package, smaller than a box of matches. On the golden seal glittered a star with two scrawls. "To Nela. Open when you hear the bells" - proclaimed the ticket. "Is this some kind of mischief from your cousin?" - she asked, but the house was quiet. Mum had warned her not to open anything before dinner. Frank peeked out from behind the curtain and smiled mysteriously. "If it's from Santa, the bells will definitely be on," he said. Half a day passed and the package lay politely on the sideboard. From the kitchen came the clatter of plates, as if time was tapping its finger. While the first star was still out, something strange happened. Silent bells flowed from the dark corridor, like glass drops. They did not sound from the street, but from above, straight from the attic. Nela squeezed her pack and started up the narrow stairs. The boards creaked and the light under the door flickered like a candle. The attic smelled of hay and old presents in the corners. The bells fell silent. The parcel in Nela's hands suddenly twitched and pulsed. Something rustled behind the big box and the handle moved of its own accord. Someone whispered her name from the very centre of the darkness.