Lena sat in the lighthouse reading room, where the municipality had set up a temporary archive of maps after the storm. Outside, fog hid the harbour, and the lens of the lamp rhythmically cut through the milk. She flipped through a workbook left by her great-grandmother, an astronomer who described non-existent constellations in the margins of maps. She wasn't keen on legends, but she liked to organise the chaotic traces of past decisions. On the last page was a sketch entitled Silent Bridge and numbered points. The addendum said: "When the lantern blinks for the third time, you press the circle at the anchor." Lena burst out laughing, but at that moment the beam of light dimmed three times. In the corner of the page someone had drawn an anchor with an eye, resembling a human tear. Below it was the date of tonight, although the paper had the smell of half a century ago. Under the window sill, right next to the faded anchor plaque, was a tiny brass circle. She pressed it, and the floor vibrated like a drum, dust sprinkled from the shelves. A circle of shimmer hung in the air, thin as a hair but thick as glass. It resembled a crack in the reality, which slid apart with every breath she took. A click came from the tiled cooker, as if someone had turned an ancient lock from within. The phone vibrated; Olek texted whether he was coming to the physics test at school tomorrow. Instead of writing back, Lena pressed her hand to the circle, cool and salty as damp glass. The afterimages of the harbour coiled in a spiral; a map without names pulsed in the centre. A volume fell from a further shelf, opening on a sentence: "The Silent Bridge really exists". The great-grandmother's notation seemed to shift, the letters flowing according to the breath of the harbour. Through the gap she saw the other shore, where lanterns stood in the water like trees. A bridge of silence connected the island of books to the city, whose streets changed direction. In the middle stood a girl in a newspaper cloak, clutching a lamp of clear glass. She raised her hand to her mouth, as if shouting voicelessly, and pointed at Lena. Behind the girl, the shape of a bridge darkened, as if made of the suspended sounds of bells. Lena withdrew her hand, but the circle swallowed the light, swelling like the breath of a huge creature. Luminous numerals dripped down from the ceiling, arranging the hour thirteen, which is never on clocks. - 'If you go in, no one will be the same version again,' whispered an unseen voice. Just then the paper pages fluttered like wings, and the threshold creaked under Lena's foot. And before she had time to decide whether to take a step, something on the other side also moved. She closed her fingers on the metal circle, feeling the pulse of the lantern that was no match for the storm.