For as long as she can remember, Mira has collected seconds like other people collect pebbles from the beach. She lived above her grandfather's clockmaker's shop, between the smell of oil and the ticking of springs. On that September morning, a thunderstorm put out half of Gdynia, and the school bell went silent. Then Mira counted to eight and everything stood still except her. Drops hung in the air, a string of rain stretched over the pitch like glass. Her heart thudded like a metronome and her fingers slipped in time. At first she thought it was a coincidence, but the next day it came back even more clearly. She practised stopping in the deserted pool, counting her heartbeat to eight. After nine, the world moved like an interrupted song, a little faster, a little crooked. She set rules: don't stop time unnecessarily, don't brag to anyone. She learned to move in silence, like a diver in dark, thick water. Then someone left a note in her hiding place: "Are you stopping? Roof, 20:08." The school roof smelled of salt and tar, and the wind pushed seagulls over the stadium. Mira climbed the narrow steps, feeling her grandfather's watch warm her wrist. The seconds hand sometimes went back a tick there, for no reason. At twenty-eight the girl was alone, until the door whistled with metal. Natan came out from the parallel classroom and looked as if he already knew the answer. Above them the neon lights of the gallery buzzed, muffling their breaths like soft foil. - How many strokes have you had? - He asked quietly, as if it was a matter of course. - 'Enough,' she replied, not revealing the number that rumbled through her veins. Natan nodded and pointed to the harbour and the fuel tanks, where the city shimmered after the storm. - Someone else can stop too, you know; last night time stood still without you, didn't it? - We didn't come here alone,' he added and looked over the umbrella of antennae. At that moment the sky trembled with a green streak, as if someone had pushed a pointer. The world twitched and grew quiet, though Mira hadn't counted anything yet. She stopped, reflexively, the first tic in her throat, and saw the trucks raised half a millimetre. In the midst of the motionless gulls stood a figure in a yellow stormjacket, stepping through the air. She smiled at them, as if they were old acquaintances, and threw a glittering second hand into the darkness, where someone answered with a snap. From the roof of the stairwell the cold flowed in, carrying the familiar smell of ozone.