Rain dripped from the canopy over the entrance as Iga closed the library for the night shift. The building was a former city bathhouse: the mosaic floor gleamed and the sound of footsteps echoed back from unexpected corners. The smell of paper mixed here with a thin hint of steam, as if a hot spring still murmured in the cellars. Iga liked this silence; the books breathed evenly, the world outside diminished. Only the seventh bookcase, it was said, sometimes rearranged the titles, as if to check who was really reading. Just after twenty-two, a courier slid a flat package under the door with no return address. Inside lay a heavy matted key with three beak-shaped teeth and a note calligraphed in a careful hand: "Please keep quiet. Card 000 exists. Do not read it." Iga smiled crookedly, though the skin on the back of her neck trembled. She placed the key on the counter. At that moment, the travel ladder at the seventh bookcase twitched and moved about a hand's width, as if someone had just stepped off it. She pushed the book trolley into the catalogue and slid out the drawer she always avoided: Withdrawn and non-existent. There was an unfamiliar cream-coloured rectangle stuck in the pages. Reader: Iga Rusek. Time: 00:07. Title: Writing without author. The date was tomorrow. The phone showed 23:41, the range seeping into the thick walls. A quiet rustling sound came from the locked reading room, like a sheet of paper being rearranged with a pad. Iga counted to five, but the rustling didn't stop, it just blended with the breath in the ventilation. She remembered the caretaker's words: "The floor is a map, it just needs to be woken up." She reached for a plant watering can and poured a thin trickle of water at the entrance to the warehouse. Dark lines blossomed from the grout, forming a plan of the former bathhouse. An arrow pointed down the corridor described PAROWA 2, ending where an atlas bookcase now stood. Behind the books was a brick wall, but the bricks had fresh scratches, as if from a recent ordeal. The key in her hand was becoming warm and its teeth, bevelled, fitted like a promise. She pulled back the wheeled bookcase and discovered a low, handleless steel door with a faded number 2. The lock was old but smooth, as if used every night. The lights blinked, switched to emergency and flooded the mosaic with a green sheen. A whisper of stretching zeros rose from the ventilation: zero, zero, zero, and then her name, pulled like a thread. The phone vibrated with a new calendar entry at 00:07: Reader accepted. Iga slid the key into the lock, listening; somewhere above her the front door slammed. As she grasped the back of the key, the metal vibrated. The lock turned of its own accord, quietly, as if someone's hand was responding to her touch from within.