Lena didn't like the August fog, but that night she walked out onto the cliff. The lighthouse at the end of the headland had been out for years, yet something flashed. In her pocket she carried her father's atlas, folded into the binding as if it were defending itself. Her father had disappeared a year ago, leaving her only a brass key and vague notes. In the pages between the maps was a thin, brittle sheet that silvered under the moon. In the margin someone had written in pencil: "The entrance opens when the sea breathes". In the morning, there was a rumour at school that the lighthouse had been lit again for a minute. Maks, who played with old radios, caught a strange signal on an unused frequency. The numbers repeated like a breath, forming a notation called 'Tide Clock'. "Maybe it's a navy test?" he asked, but looked at Lena as if puzzled. She showed him a key with a star engraved on the teeth and a pale sheet of paper. They decided to return to the cliff at dusk before the mist crept up the path. The lighthouse appeared more alive than it should have after years of silence. The spiral staircase rumbled underfoot, as if the old metal still remembered their former steps. A cracked Fresnel lens and a desktop with rows of levers waited at the top. One slot had a notch exactly like the uneven teeth of her key. Beneath the desktop were the words: "Don't look in the reflection when the sea is breathing". Maks adjusted the radio and the needle trembled as the numbers began to rise rapidly. From outside, a deep intake of breath from the waves could be heard, followed by a longer, great release of air. Lena slid the key in and turned it until something clicked distinctly under her hands. The lens did not flare with light, but released a thin, rippling plane in front of her. Circles hung in the air, like the marks of a stone thrown into a very dark lake. On the other side shimmered the streets, which consisted of salt, wind and a string of bells. Someone on that side raised their hand, and a voice whispered her name from two directions at once. Maks took a step back, as if suddenly remembering the reason why they don't walk here. "Don't pass," he said uncertainly, although it sounded more like a cautious question. The radio beeped, then crackled softly, arranging the word 'TRANSIT' in letters made of mere numbers. The floor vibrated slightly, and fresh footsteps bloomed in the dust that led towards the plane. A rasping sound came from below, as if someone was closing a door they had not seen here at all. The lens moved a millimetre, the unplugged lantern blinked, and a shadow stopped exactly between them and the wavy passage.