Lena was seventeen and lived in a town where the waves bite the cliffs. For a year, everyone had acted as if Oscar had simply left without a word. She was the only one who remembered the night he died, and the silent flash outside the station. There was no body, no goodbyes, there was the drawing of the door in his notebook. On the first day of a windless September, she found a hidden pocket in his sailing jacket. Inside lay the co-ordinates, a piece of tape and the phrase: Turn the wind and it will open. Underneath, he was drawing with the same hand a symbol resembling waves entering a constellation. Lena didn't believe in riddles, but she knew the ruins of the tidal power station under the cliff. She went there at dusk, when the tide had steadied and the wind had shifted to the north. The bricks were damp, the turbine was replaced by a chorus of seagulls, and the smell of rust scratched her throat. In the darkest corner she found a metal locking wheel, long caked with salt and seaweed. She turned it, and then the whole room took a deeper breath, as if waking up. The air against the wall thickened, began to ripple until it formed an oval sheet. It did not reflect her face, only the cold space with stars that do not exist over the Baltic Sea. She slipped her house key into the taffy, and it came right back, heavier and icy. The phone buzzed in her pocket, a single sentence from Kacper: Don't go, wait for me. She turned the sound off as a bass murmur came from inside, as if someone was moving mountains. Salt dust began to circulate on the floor, forming into letters stolen from Oskar's handwriting. Lena knelt down and read in a whisper: Go back the way you didn't come before the clock goes back. Then the taffy brightened and a gloved hand, wet with stars, slid out from the depths. It was not human, but it held a silver plate embossed with the name she knew best. A door slammed behind her back, and the wind caught it to the doorframe like a rusty magnet. The taffy moved closer, almost touching her forehead, and something said her name. Lena reached up, feeling the air draw in her breath and the world on that side turn a blind eye. A notification popped out of her pocket, but the hour glowed backwards, as if the phone was turning back the day. Kacper was writing: 'I'm already under the cliff, and the echo was just climbing the stairs from the depths. Beyond the taffrail scrolled masts without ships, long bridges of rope, and an Oscar-like silhouette. She raised her torch and a stream of light entered the oval, splitting like a rainbow in a knife. Then a mechanism in the wall hummed, as if someone had switched on the electricity, and the wind pushed a wave inside. The gloved hand moved askance, and Lena felt time crack like a shell. There was a rumbling sound from the corridor, as if someone was slamming a rod into steel, and someone called her name. Lena raised her other hand, ready to be touched, when suddenly the oval trembled and....