On an October Thursday, High School No. 3 smelled of wet wool and chalk. The second-floor corridor was so long that the echo of bells took a few seconds to ring out in the high vault. On the walls hung pictures of old classrooms - the smiles of years ago, the uniforms, the crooked tassels on diplomas. Walking through there between seventh and eighth lessons, I thought about being one of those faces in a few months' time. It was a bit soothing and a bit of a cold nail in the stomach. I held the camera in my hands like a talisman. My project for my final year was workingly called 'The School that Watches'. I photographed things that no one photographs: the scratches on the handrails, the faded lesson planners, the shadowy cracks in the glass of Room 102. In Room 204 - the one that was theoretically not allowed to be used after the refurbishment - the clock on the wall seemingly stood still, yet the hands twitched from time to time, as if they had a nervous tic. I once managed to take some photos of this through the glass window in the door. - Are you hunting for dust again? - Michael appeared beside me silently. He always did that. He hardly walked, just glided, as he must have been transforming patterns in his mind. His rucksack was heavier than he was; the screws from some self-made pendulum were ringing inside. - 'Dust has a history, too,' I muttered, ripping the photos onto my phone for a quick look. - 'Sounds like a description for your Instagram, if it weren't for the fact that you only upload black and white stuff anyway,' interjected Nika, leaning against the radiator. Her headphones dangled from the collar of her sweatshirt; quiet background music could be heard between the words. Nika was running a school podcast - too sincere not to annoy the teachers, and too good to be banned. - Today we're recording about the stress of the midterms. Do you have five minutes after chemistry? - I have ten,' I replied. - But come with me to 204 - I think something is changing there... well, changing. I hesitated on that word, trying not to sound too pathetic. I didn't want it to sound like I was looking for a cheap sensation. However, as I zoomed in on one of the photographs on the screen, the cold froze in my fingers. The rectangle of the door window reflected the corridor - our corridor, you know - but instead of the usual 204 number plate, there was a white piece of paper with black lettering: "8:08". Just like that. As if someone had stuck the time on the door. - Some kind of joke? - Michael squinted his eyes. - Check the details of the photo. I moved my finger. 13:17. aperture 2.8. time 1/50. ISO 400. everything normal. Except... I remembered that in the photo itself, the clock in the middle of the room - the supposedly dead one - was also pointing to 8:08, even though I had photographed it not at eight in the morning, but in the afternoon, before we escaped to the Polish. - 'The clock always stands at that hour,' snarled Nika. - After all, it's a meme at our school. "Are you late? No, it's 8:08." - But the plaque on the door is not," I said quietly. Before we could agree on anything, the radio beeped. Usually this meant that the caretaker, Mrs Trojan, would remind us to take our trip consents, or play a compilation of nineties music at 8am. Now, however, the speakers throughout the floor beeped and I heard... my own voice. - Attention, evacuation rehearsal in eight minutes. Let me repeat: in eight minutes. Gather at room 204 - announced I, although I was not recording anything. We froze. Even the fluorescent lights stopped buzzing softly, as if they too wanted to hear it again. Several doors swung open at once and heads popped out of the classrooms, laughing, murmuring. Someone shouted: "Haha, Lena, cool!" Someone else cmoched in annoyance. Mrs Trojan ran out of the staff room like a whirlwind, the feathers in her puffy waistcoat waving in the draught. - Who let it go! - she shouted into the space. - Who has the keys to the radio room? The hands on my wrist watch trembled. 1:22 p.m. The speakers beeped once more, as if someone was losing range. - In seven minutes... - this time my voice was muffled, as if from behind a door. - Room 204. - Lena? - Nika looked at me sharply. - Did you do that? - No. I swear. I wasn't even at the radio station today. - 'Then let's go,' cut in Michael, more curious than frightened. - Before the ruckus starts. As we approached 204, I felt the chill pull up from the floor like a fog, wrapping around my ankles. Maybe it was a matter of leaky windows in this part of the building, maybe a draught. The door to the hall was heavy, wooden, scratched. The paintwork cracked like mud after a drought. The number plate had fallen off one corner and someone had fixed it with a grey patch. A small, freshly nailed note stuck underneath: "Do not open. Under development". This bureaucratic choice of words made me laugh. What can be "developed" in a locked room for years? Looking through the narrow window, I could see a row of benches covered with sheets, a map cupboard, a dark, shiny blackboard. And a clock. Of course. A clock with black numbers and tin hands. 8:08. - 'Someone's doing a performance here,' whispered Nika, pulling out her phone. - Maybe it's a local government action? - Or a system error - burbled Michal. - The radio station has announcement machines, no? It can be programmed. But... - he hesitated. - Your voice. I didn't say that the tone sounded like me at night, when I no longer pretend to be in control of everything. Like me just after waking up, when I remember a dream but can no longer recount it. - In five minutes - it sounded from the loudspeakers, which crackled like a thunderstorm. - Silence in the corridors, please. The classroom door began to close. Some students looked out, glancing at us distrustfully, as if we were part of the show. Mrs Trojan was arguing on the phone, gesticulating nervously. Someone launched a timing app and shouted every so often: "Four and a half to go! Four!" I got out my camera and took a picture of the plaque on the door. Click. Then another. On the screen I saw something that couldn't immediately be explained: tiny scuffs on the varnish were arranged in letters. As if someone had written with a fingernail. "Get in before it disappears." I blinked. In person, there were no letters. Just cracks. - Can you see? - I showed them the screen. - Here are the words. - 'It's a compression artefact,' said Michael, although his voice didn't sound convincing. - A random pattern. - In three minutes - the noise of the radio station grew louder, as if someone was putting a microphone to a jumper. Someone in the first class started clapping to the rhythm of some gag. Nika leaned close enough to me that I could smell her mint gum. - If it's a prank, it's conscious. If not... - she interrupted. I touched the door handle. It was as cold as metal exposed to the January frost, even though it was a damp October outside. My skin grew goosebumps. Behind the glass, on the other side of the room, it was as if something flashed. Was it the reflection of a lamp? Was it just my brain trying to match the shadows to the story? - We couldn't just walk in. - Michael grabbed my sleeve. - There's a 'Do not open' card. For that there are duty officers, cameras.... - In two minutes - my own voice in the speakers sounded clear now, as if the microphone was right next to me. - Please, line up in pairs. In pairs. Muscle memory from primary school made me take half a step sideways and smile, absurdly. - 'Okay, if you want to take this picture, take it now,' hissed Nika. - 'But if we screw something up, I'm taking it on the podcast, got it? - Nika - Michael warned her. - Minimum harm maximum gain - Nika winked. - 'I'm joking. A little. I took thin fingerless gloves out of my pocket. I didn't want to leave a trail, even though it was pointless anyway - I'd already been seen. The crowd was thickening around me, but in a certain radius around 204 it was getting strangely quiet. As if the sound was taking half a step back. I saw that Mrs Trojan had stopped talking and was looking at us, with her finger in the air, as if frozen in a frame. Her face was pale blue from the fluorescent light. - 'In a minute,' she told me from the speakers. - Let me repeat: in a minute. My camera screen lit up. Time: 8:07 - I squealed quietly. I glanced at my phone. 1:28 p.m. The camera screen flashed, as if trying to tune in to some other wave. For a split second, through the viewfinder, I saw a room not as it had been before the refurbishment, but as it was from some very old photographs: a planetarium with a brass frame stood in the corner, a map of the sky hung on the wall, and the blackboard was full of chalk dots connected by lines. - 'Did you guys see that? - I whispered. - What? - Michael was pale. - Lena, put that camera down. - In thirty seconds - the radio station was almost whispering. - Keep calm. My fingers on the door handle began to tremble, not because it was cold. I'm afraid of all sorts of things: results, pins in adult statements, silence after an argument at home. Now I was afraid that if I didn't do anything, I would lose something that only matters now - like a light at a particular hour that won't happen again. - 'Lena,' said Nika, this time seriously. - 'Either it was you, or someone who listened to you a lot. Or... someone who knows you better than you know yourself. If we open, there is no going back. The clock behind the glass seemed bigger, as if it had moved forward, although that was absurd. 8:07:45. 8:07:46. 8:07:47. - In ten... nine... eight... - my voice was counting. It wasn't mine. It was, and it wasn't. Like an echo from somewhere I hadn't been before. Then a quiet click came from the side of the lock. Not the kind made by a key turned in a hurry, but soft, like the melting of ice under the palm of my hand. The handle under my hand dropped a millimetre. Behind the door, something stirred the air and a chill with the scent of moss and long extinguished stars blew from inside the room, which had been closed for months. - Seven... six... - the speakers hummed. Michael tightened his fingers on my sleeve. Nika pulled out the recorder and raised an eyebrow. I gasped for air, slipped my nails under the metal and pushed as the school bell sounded across the floor for the first time that day, completely out of time....