Maja was seventeen years old and collected cameras that others had long since considered scrap. On a Saturday morning, she was roaming around a market hall in Gdynia, looking for something with a soul. When a vendor slid a Praktica with a scratched shutter aileron out of a cardboard box, her heart sped up. In a leather case, she found an envelope, and inside was a negative and a narrow, bent strip of paper. On the strip was a single sentence: three triangles whisper where light meets water. After lessons, she went into the school darkroom and developed the negative in the red light. On the picture stood the lighthouse in Oksywie, and above it a drawing of three triangles, almost invisible. In the bottom corner someone had annotated with a pencil the time, the date and a number that looked like a frequency. Maja called Olek, the only person who could read the city like a map. He came after ten minutes, still wearing headphones, carrying a small wave scanner and a thermos. - 'Someone is guiding you,' he said, looking at the photo with a strange tenderness, like a timetable. - That number is a radio signal, local, probably bouncing between the boulevards and the harbour. Maja remembered her grandmother's stories about the Emery, the former listening corridor under the quay. The place had been closed off for years, but rated with rumours that never rusted. They agreed that they would go after dark, before the harbour lights dimmed and it became quieter. The wind pushed the wet mist onto the stones as they passed empty benches and a creaking pier. At the lighthouse, they set up the camera on a tripod and Olek switched on the scanner to the given frequency. At first it sounded like rain, then like breathing, and finally like the melody of a lullaby. - 'Grandma used to sing it,' whispered Maja and touched the railing, cool as fish scales. The light of the lantern cut through the darkness and brought out three triangles carved on the wall, connected by a thread. The thread turned out to be a thin wire that disappeared into a gap between the bricks crowning the descent. They slid down the slab, heavy as wet sand, and entered a narrow, sloping corridor. Someone had left fresh chalk arrows, and the smell of grease betrayed the recent movement of mechanisms. - 'We won't be the first,' muttered Olek, turning down the scanner, which began to spit out an even pulse. The pulse matched the footsteps, as if the corridor had a heart of its own and was patiently tapping it out. At the end of the corridor waited a steel gate with three slots arranged in a triangle. Maja clipped a ring from her case to the key and pressed the tabs into the cool grooves. Something vibrated beneath the floor, the air trembled, and the melody in the headphone suspended the last sound. Behind their backs, someone's phone flashed in the darkness, went off, and a whisper sounded: Maya?