Lena was nineteen years old and rented a room above an old print shop on the market square. The print shop smelled of lead and dust, and the ceiling held the heavy night rhythm of the machines. At night, when the city was quiet, Lena would draw in her sketchbook to quiet her head for a while. That evening, an unstamped envelope lay under the door, clipped with a paperclip; the trembling letters on it: "To the silent tenant". Outside the window blinked a neon sign with the letter R, which always lost the rest of the word. Inside, she found a heavy yellow key with an engraving on the pin that said: EXPRESSION. Next to it lay a piece of paper on which someone had carefully annotated: "Don't lose it, it opens where there is no door". Lena laughed half-heartedly, because it sounded like a joke taken out of a book. But as she pulled back the curtain, she noticed a thin scratch on the wall, curved like the outline of a doorframe. The key was warm, as if it had just been taken out of the pocket of someone in a hurry. She tried not to think about it too much, but the scratch did not let up. She took a school chalk from the drawer and carefully drew the rectangle, the hinges and the handle. When she pressed the key into the air, the metal met resistance, as if there was a hidden lock in the wall. "This is absurd!" - she whispered, though her heart might have just pierced her blouse like a screaming stud. She turned the key; the room immediately smelled of library dust and damp old felt. Behind the wall the pipes trembled, but the sound had a ton of letters, not flowing water. The door, which was not there, swung open a hand's width and let out a twilight. Beyond the threshold stretched a room, like a reading room without a librarian, full of tables and frames. The frames were empty, but reflected what was yet to come, something soft and luminous. A pool of ink was splashing in the middle, with dotted stars floating on its surface. Razors of paper dangled from the ceiling, as motionless as leaves on a windless summer morning. On the wall hung a plaque with three rules: "Do not enter by thought alone. Arrange sentences carefully. Remember, attention has weight". Lena took a step and felt the floor react to her every intention, as if listening. "I want to see my grandmother sewing a dress out of scraps for spring," she thought unwillingly. The image in the nearest frame flashed and obediently filled with the movements of her hands, the needle, the fabric. Then a shadow in the shape of her own profile, but with its eyes turned away, slid out of the other, hitherto dark frame. The shadow raised its hand, and a barely visible smudge appeared in the empty space. "I wasn't thinking of you," she said, taking two cautious steps backwards. In response, all the stars on the sheet of ink went out at once, and on the other side of the ajar door someone whispered her name.