On this rainy afternoon, Bydgoszcz smelled of puddles and wet concrete. I cycled along the Brda, and the rain, fine as dust, sat on my eyelashes. In front of me loomed the brick block of City Library No. 7 - with narrow windows that always looked as if they were looking out for something. I was supposed to do my school volunteer hours here. In practice, this meant: sorting out books and photocopying old maps, and as a reward, inhaling the smell of dust that only libraries know. Mr Grobelny stood behind the counter, skinny as an antique bookmark. He corrected his glasses and nodded as if it were a ceremony. - 'Punctual, Nino. We like punctual people,' he said. He took out of a drawer a heavy iron key on a leather strap. It was bigger than my hand. - A special job today. Special Collections warehouse. Downstairs. You'll clean, sort. Be careful on the stairs. And... - he hesitated, as if searching for the right word - don't leave anything open. - Why? - I asked, glancing at the key. He smiled, but without joy. - Because then everything comes back on its own. And not always where it came from. With a clang I hung the key around my neck. The stairs down smelled damp and the light bulb pushed back a slice of darkness with each step, but behind me it was immediately getting dark again. The warehouse greeted me with a chill and silence. A concrete floor, rows of shelves, wooden boxes marked with yellowed sheets of paper. The smell of glue, leather and mouldy paper hung in the air. I lit the extra lamps. The bulbs blinked, as if stipulating that it was only for a moment. I sat down at the narrow table and began to open the first box. Inside lay a globe, an old one with dark oceans and lands whose borders looked as if someone had drawn them with a pen. I picked it up carefully, as it was heavier than it looked. Suddenly I felt it tremble, slightly, almost imperceptibly. - 'It's cold,' said someone in a low, hoarse voice. I froze. I looked around. No one there. Just bookcases, crates and me. I pulled air through my teeth until my mouth hurt. - Cold in the belly, I say! - groaned a voice, closer this time. - If you're already taking me out of the box, as long as it's not on a bare table. I touched my finger to the tabletop. Cool. I looked at the globe. It was lying leaning against my elbow and... waiting? - Is that... you? - I whispered. - 'On planet Ignatius, I never lie,' the globe reflected, snarkily dragging out the 'r'. - 'Although I admit, I do fly over Antarctica and then I sometimes exaggerate. For a second I wondered if this was a joke by Mr Grobelny. Maybe he had hidden a speaker somewhere? I brought my ear close to the globe and heard a quiet rustling inside, as if the sand was shifting in an hourglass. - Where did you get your name from? - I asked, so as not to think I was talking to the globe. - It was given to me at my geographical baptism in 1927,' sighed Ignatius. - Also, I have freckles in the Sahara, so Ignatius suits me. Behind my back something clattered. I turned around just in time to see a single drawer slide out of a tall wooden cupboard with a card catalogue. Gently, as if on tiptoe. - Close it - the drawer hissed. - A draught! I'm going to get the cards cold. I walk over, take the brass handle. It looks ordinary. I pull, look inside. A row of cards with names on them. On the top, someone has scrawled the word: APOLONIA in pencil. - No gloves, please, no gloves! - snorted the drawer. - These are first editions, dear child. - I'm not a child,' I said, putting my hands in my pockets. - I am fourteen. - Ah, a transitional period. Awkward, but useful - the drawer replied with seriousness, and I was sure: it's not the speaker. - My name is Apolonia. I look after the memory of things. It's rare to hear from someone new. Ignatius coughed lightly. - Because he has a key,' he muttered. - The old one. He can unlock his ears. I touched the key, which rested on my chest and was pleasantly warm, as if it had just been lying in the sun rather than in Mr Grobelny's drawer. - 'Just a moment,' I said, slowly. - 'You... you're all talking? - Not all of us - a new voice spoke up, this time from in front of a gramophone standing in the corner, on a box with a sign: PLATES-KRUCHE. - Some people lack the temperament. But I do. I am Celina. Please don't touch my needle. Only to the rollers. - I'm Henry," grunted something thinly at the steel pen that lay in the case. - I write the words that stay. Be careful, Nina, that you don't scrawl anything you'll regret. Ink remembers. - My name is Nina, right? - surprised. - How do you know? - You read like adults,' Apolonia smiled, and the echo of her voice rustled between the pages. - 'Before you came here, someone stepped in and left your name on the list. You sign it. - Sign what? - I felt the skin on the back of my neck start to turn red. - The Inventory of Whispers - two voices said almost simultaneously. Ignatius and Henry. It was as if they had agreed on a duet. At the side of the table lay a book so thick it could have served as a footstool. Bound in dark leather, with the corners scuffed to a lighter brown. When I laid my hand on it, it sounded quiet, like the purr of a cat. I opened to the first page. Lines, names, dates. Between them glittered letters written in ink that hadn't aged. - What is this list? - I asked, running my finger over the 'Guardian' section. There were names of people I'd never heard of. Some so old it hurt to read. - 'A list of those who can hear us and do something about it,' Apolonia replied more seriously than before. - Without a guardian, we are easily scattered. Today especially. - For years - interjected someone in a thin voice. I looked towards the pocket watch that hung on a nail by the bookcase. It was slightly dented, silver as dawn. - I am Matilda. I'm counting the time backwards. - Backwards? - I repeated stupidly. The watch ticked: tit, tit, tit - as if tiny shards of calm were falling off it. The hands ran backwards. - 'The Collector of Silence is coming again today,' Matilda whispered so quietly that I had to lean in. - Whenever it strikes nine, they try to calm us down so he doesn't hear us. But he always takes something. Or someone. - 'Don't scare the baby,' hissed Celina, but something cracked in her chuckle. - A picker, not a picker, we'll manage. Just like every year. - Every year? - I repeated, although I felt I understood less and less. - Who is he? - 'Someone who likes it when he doesn't say anything,' Ignatius said, and the ocean currents tugged at him. - He comes in and takes away the voices. Silence remains, the kind that rings between the bookcases. You hate it after a few minutes, and we start to forget who we are after a few months. I almost gulped that this was absurd, but then the light bulb above the table flicked on and a cool draught rolled across the concrete. As if someone had opened the door to the courtyard. There was no door to the courtyard. There were only stairs and a heavy trellis at the top. - Mr Grobelny... - I started, but Apolonia interrupted me quickly. - Not Mr Grobelny today. Today he is. Do you hear Matilda? There's not much left. I glanced at my watch. The seconds hand was moving stubbornly back to twelve o'clock. Nine o'clock in eight minutes. - What should I do? - I asked, feeling the key on my chest grow even warmer. - After all... I'm here for the first time. - That's why,' Henry said softly. - 'You don't have the habits. You don't know what it takes, so maybe you'll do things differently. - Hide us - asked Matilda quietly. - Not all of us. Just the ones that play the loudest. He follows the sound. 'Celina... Ignatius... Henry,' she listed, and I suddenly realised how audible my new friends were. Their voices reverberated off the cardboard boxes and crates, forming a kind of whispered chorus. - 'I can pretend to be a poster,' Celina suggested with desperate humour. - 'You'll hang me up in a dark corner. - And me? - Ignatius moved across the table and nudged my elbow. - I am the sphere. I can't be rolled up into a pocket. - You can be covered with a map,' suggested Apolonia quickly. - I have one thick one, with Prussia, very discreet. I sprang into action before fear could untie my legs. The map, a bedspread for Ignatius. The case from Henryk into the pocket of his blouse. I labelled Celina, as she requested, with a note saying "Emergency - do not touch" and slipped it deep under the table, into an alcove from where the cool air was coming. Matilda laughed quietly, that laugh of hers sounding like a lost needle. - What about me? - Apolonia asked, and I looked around helplessly. - You... you are a wardrobe,' I replied. - You can't be moved. - But you can be closed - she snarled. - 'And I don't respond if someone tries to open me without saying 'please'. - 'That leaves the Inventory,' Henry reminded her, and all the way he jumped out of the case like a screech. - Don't leave it out in the open. If the Collector touches it, it will save us silence permanently. I grabbed the book. It was as heavy as a loaf of bread. The key on my chest rustled so quietly that I took it for my own breath. I looked around for a place to hide something so large, and then.... A metallic sound came from above. Like a key hitting the lattice. Everything froze. The light bulb stopped blinking. It stopped shining at all. The darkness was not quite black; it was the colour of wet lead. A chill flowed from the corridor that led to the stairs, as if from a pool closed for the winter. - 'Nino,' whispered Apolonia so lightly that I had to guess what she was saying. - 'Put the inventory under the table. Now. And hold Henry. I dropped the book softly to the ground and slid it under the table with my foot. Henry was cool and smooth, like a fish, but when I closed my hand over it, I felt it pulsate. From the corridor came the creak of the first step. Then the second. My breath stopped in my throat. - 'He's already here,' Matilda said, and suddenly her ticking accelerated, though it still ran in the opposite direction. A lock rasped from the top grating. Something answered it on the other side, a low, deafening sound, as if someone had put their hand to the metal. The door moved. Once. A second. The handle vibrated.