When Al disembarked at the smallest station in the valley, the cool mist smelled of rosemary. Bright rails ran down from the tracks, followed by a path of black pebbles. At the end of it stood the house that Grandma always insistently called the Echo Devourer. Every cry inside supposedly disappeared, as if the walls were drinking syllables slowly and endlessly. Ala had in her pocket a key with a green ribbon and a letter with three spellings. Two crows on the telegraph line watched her as intently as the conductor. The letter smelled of juniper and dust, and Grandma's handwriting was harder than usual. Don't call your name in the house, don't open the chest before the new moon, don't put out the light in the hallway. In the margin was a short sentence: If the stream is silent, feed the house with a night song. Ala promised herself not to be afraid of the old words, even though they sounded foreign. The ribbon on the key had a pattern of leaves that moved like shadows in the water. In the vestibule, a brass bell without a tongue waited, hung high above the tied carpet. Beneath it stood a bowl of water in which three skylights floated, frozen like stars. In the living room she found the windows covered with thick paper, and a clock without hands on the table. Only the kitchen was alive, rustling with copper pots and smelling of slightly burnt honey. A portrait of her grandmother hung above the fireplace, but the painter had left white spaces instead of eyes. Behind the house ran a stream that always whispered, but now made no sound. The silence had the weight of sand, pressing into her ears and muffling her every step. Alla opened the letter once more, looking for a hint, but found only a blot of ink. As night crept in, the light in the hallway went out, although the bulb was new. The tongueless bell clanged softly, as if someone had stirred the air inside its throat. A night butterfly slid out of the brass, fluttering its wings like paper, sharp and new. It remembered the last sentence and sang quietly, without words, a melody from its childhood. The sound rippled through the walls, drifted down the stairs until she felt the house breathing heavier. The echo did not return, but the clock standing on the table began to tick, without directions at all. Then she spotted a tiny door in the foot of the stairs, just in time for the green key. She turned it carefully and a damp smell came from inside, like a cave by a river. Someone from inside whispered directly into her ear, very clearly, her full name. Alina became immobile as she did not have time to bite her tongue when the voice said: - Alina, don't turn around.