Maja lived in a block of flats that still remembered the days of green intercoms and metal boxes. The lifts in it hummed melodies in tune with the weather, as if listening to the sky. On Sundays it smelled of bread in the stairwell, on Fridays of the baked stress of high school graduates. Everything here was ordinary, yet it crumbled under the touch of small, stubbornly everyday miracles. The oldest lamp blinked in Morse code when someone hesitated too long on the way out. That Monday, Maja got up early because she had a mock physics exam ahead of her. The clock in the kitchen moved a second back, as if to give her a small reserve of courage. On the ground floor, the lift's mirror reflected a panel with extra buttons that weren't actually there. Between zero and one, the words '0.5' flashed, hilarious and too certain to ignore. Maja sighed, fixed her ponytail and hugged the cool, polished metal handrail to her cheek. The inscription seemed to change brightness to the rhythm of her pulse, patient and brazenly familiar. Maja put her finger where the phantom button was on the reflection, and felt a click. The lift vibrated, as if it had gathered its courage, descended gently and stood between floors. The doors swung open to a mezzanine she didn't know: the corridor smelled of powder and wet wool. Letterboxes hung on the left, but instead of names they had words: "Monday", "Silence", "Grief", "Courage". A fluorescent light crackled on the ceiling, drawing momentary maps on the wall that she couldn't remember. At the bottom of one box lay a button that apparently remembered all the estate's fingers. The phone vibrated; seven twelve, Cuba texted that he was already waiting under the mural next to the school. "Don't be lost for miracles, be punctual," he wrote, and Maja wasn't sure herself what she needed more. From behind the door marked 'Lost Hours' came the muffled sound of her bell, this one with a slightly false trumpet. She could feel two versions of the day pushing at her elbows and asking her to choose. She lifted the flap of the 'Monday' box and saw an envelope with her own name written on it in a thin blue marker. Inside lay a tram ticket, punched on the corner, and a small brass key with a '0.5' keyring. On the back of the ticket someone had written in print: "Don't get on the third carriage today, even though it will look empty". Mai's hand trembled, yet her fingers clenched tighter on the cool metal of the key. The envelope smelled of rain, as if someone had put it out on the balcony during a spring downpour. She found the lock at the door "Lost Hours", almost hidden in the shadows of the lampposts, and slid the key in. On the other side something rustled, like pages turned by the wind, and then said her name. The lock clicked, the light blinked twice, and the lift above her began to depart upwards. Her phone vibrated again, but the screen remained black, as if the signal had gotten stuck along the way.