Lena was seventeen and her grandfather's atlas, thick with notes about the sea. Between the worn-out pages she had found a compass mark yesterday, drawn in pencil next to Jastarnia. Someone had written the coordinates and time next to it, as if arranging a meeting with the Baltic itself. They reached the listening station on Hel with Iw at dusk, by bicycle and in silence. She wasn't the runaway type, but curiosity nipped at her pedal heels. The wind carried salt and the smell of rust, and the creaking aerials looked like bent reeds. They walked through a hole in the fence, hiding their torches so as not to give away their presence. Lena checked her compass and the paper on which her grandfather had drawn crane-like symbols. The brick shaft leading down breathed a chill, as if it breathed someone's old secret. Behind them, they left the beach where Pink West had sunk the day before and laughed. They descended slowly, counting the steps, until the walls were again covered with the same sign. Iwo whispered that it was the usual technical markings, but his voice sounded uncertain. The door with the round peephole gave way as they pushed together, groaning like old rudders. Beyond the threshold, a domed room awaited, full of equipment that remembered analogue cosmos. A metallic chill rose from the railings, as if the staircase remembered too many steps. In the middle stood a star projector, facing the ceiling, like a cannon barrel measuring into the night. On the table lay a brass cylinder engraved with constellations and names of places, including Kuznets. Beneath it rested a piece of paper, my grandfather's handwriting as sharp as the wind: "Don't look back". Only below did she notice the note: "When you hear singing, trust the map, not your eyes". Clocks flashed around, their hands standing on the hour from the atlas annotation. The cylinder fitted perfectly into the projector socket, clicking like a locked key ring. Iwo turned it carefully, and a pale, pulsating light spilled into the dome. It was no match for today's sky; it showed a map of stars that had not yet risen. Lena's compass spun in circles, and the floor trembled as if ice had moved. Thin lines lit up in the wall, arranging an unfamiliar writing that resembled waves. From the depths of the corridors came a sound like singing, carrying salt and something like memory. Panels in the ceiling fanned out and a beam from a projector pointed to the dunes beyond the station. On the other side, locks clicked, opening a narrow passageway from which the mist escaped. The phones lost range as someone quietly called Lena's name in her grandfather's voice. Lena squeezed the cylinder, looked at Iwa, and the wall next door vibrated. Something heavy began to move behind her, as if a dormant machinery was waking up. And then something knocked from inside that machinery, three times, clearly.