Anka moved into the attic of a century-old townhouse, right above the former 'Pearl' dispensary. The bathroom was narrow, with green tiles and a heavy mirror front over the washbasin. There was the smell of mint from the tap, although the water was supplied from the same old mains. In a cardboard box left by the previous tenant, she found toothbrushes, thread and a pocket mirror engraved with 'Lily'. The attached card proclaimed: "Take care of the crevices. Stories are born there". Anka studied design, loved tools and rituals, and brushed her teeth meticulously. That evening, she decided to touch anything that smelled of care and secret. She set the timer for two minutes and began circular movements, short, calm, without pressure. She moved the bristles along the gum line, as Aunt Lilia, the hygienist of legend, had taught her. Then the floss: a loop, a gentle C, deep down, up, carefully between each adjacent tooth. The tongue scraper picked up the morning's residue, and the mouthwash baked like a sea breeze. The mirror fogged up, letters blossomed on the glass that didn't disappear even when wiped away. They wrote: "Don't leave the space unattended", and the tap responded with a single drop into the very centre of the sink. In the morning she went down to the locked dispensary, as the key also matched the bottom door with milk glass. Inside, it smelled of clove oil and posters of molars hung like maps of heaven. On the desk was a model of a jaw with a missing bicuspid and an old toothbrush with the initials 'L' engraved on it. When she touched its bristles, it bubbled in the pipes like a throaty laugh until the light bulb dimmed slightly. She still found a notebook with a plan of the tenement's plumbing, scribbled like a dentition card. She returned upstairs with the mirror, her toothbrush and anxiety quietly scraping in her pocket. After dark, the street died down and the bathroom became a small stage with tiled walls. Anka applied fluoride toothpaste, activated the sonic toothbrush and looked into Lilia's mirror. She saw not only her reflection, but also a tangle of pipes behind it, as if the mirror opened up a cross-section of the building. A milky mist crept along the cool walls, forming a thin biofilm, glistening like sediment on a kettle. She took a thread from her pocket; it flared in the glass like a thin rope, ready to descend between the pipes. She remembered the words on the page: 'Clear spaces are corridors of light' and felt her gums tingle. There was a clatter from the siphon to the rhythm of the timer, and the toothbrush twitched on its own as if pointing to a cupboard. She opened the door and found a map identical to the notebook, only instead of numbers there were the names of the teeth. Every few seconds something under the bath pulsed, crushing the grout like soft ice under a shoe. A frosty mint blast came from the drain and a whisper she couldn't ignore: "The stone is rising." The foam on her tongue darted downwards and her hand reached for the siphon key herself. She unscrewed the first knee; the darkness sighed coldly, and from deep within it clicked, as if teeth had clenched. Suddenly the mirror darkened, and a cracked molar outlined behind her back, just opening her mouth.