In Mokrzyce, Halloween was called Lantern Night, and today everything was burning in the mist. The town square swam in warm light, pumpkins zigzagged their eyebrows and a band practised a spooky waltz. Jagna, seventeen years old and a notebook in her pocket, was to document a competition of urban legends. Winning was decided by evidence, not shouting, so she needed facts, not clips with bats. The poster directed everyone to the old glassworks, where the Glass Bell was said to awaken. Its sound was said to fuse images in memory and then never fall silent. - 'It's just a schoolchildren's game, nothing will ring,' muttered Kuba, holding a lantern with a flat owl on it. Jagna smiled crookedly as she enjoyed proving that legends have breath. Burning pumpkins lined the path towards the steelworks, as if the town was holding a procession. Beyond the field a copse of trees and a river began, which smelled of rust, leaves and a vague memory. The closer they got to the gate, the louder the transparent shards of old windows crunched under their boots. In a crevice of the fence someone had drawn an arrow in chalk, and next to it the letters: HUNT FOR ECHO. Jagna's phone hung without reach, as if the very air had stopped the messages in her pocket. They passed through a collapsed gate and stood among the cookers, which had turned into shadows without fire. On the office door hung the party's riddle: Find a bell without a tower, a sea without water, a house without windows. - 'A house of moulds,' whispered Jagna, pointing to a hall of glass moulds and wavy prints. Inside it smelled of dust, and every whisper took longer to return, as if the glass had trained an echo. Underneath the table lay a briefcase with a yellowed spine, bearing the stamp of the glassworks and the name KORDEL. It was her surname, except that it was after her grandmother, whom she hardly remembered. The pages crunched as she flipped through the entries about bell trials, always cracking at the same hour. The last note was fresh, the ink fuzzy: Today, 31 October, 23:11, it will finally sound. The hour approached inexorably, and the air grew heavy as glaze. Suddenly the row of lanterns in the courtyard went out all at once, as if someone had pressed a common light switch. All that was left was their owl, swaying in trembling, like a voice just out of tears. Above them, the mezzanine crackled and footsteps descended from above, soft but sure of direction. Jagna's phone vibrated despite the lack of reception; a new photograph showed their backs from a minute ago. - 'Who did this? - asked Cuba as a handle slid out from behind the office door, creaking. Jagna touched the metal, and from deep inside, very clearly, someone whispered her name.