Maji's paper shop stood right next to the tram terminus, between the bakery and the newspaper kiosk. In the evening, the neon sign blinked with the ringing rhythm of the last tram, and inside it smelled of cardboard and graphite. Maja counted her change, put down her mug of bergamot and looked through a notebook from a forgotten delivery. It had turned up a few months ago, without a barcode, squeezed in between the usual bruloks on the wire. When she poured tea over one page, the lines didn't spill out, but bound into even, quiet text. The notebook responded to the notes, though no one held a pen. For the first time he wrote: "Leave change in the jar for the gentleman with the dog", and she obeyed. The next day, the old man with the spaniel thanked her, as if he had always known that the coins were waiting for him. Then there were the little things: moving the clock by two minutes, an umbrella for a stranger, avoiding seat number twelve. Tonight, she read the sentence: '6:03pm a woman is coming for a round clip, say no'. She didn't like saying no, so she raised her eyebrows and closed her notebook as if it stopped the hour. At 6:02 p.m. the bell rang; a woman in a yellow mackintosh stood in the doorway and asked exactly that. Maja felt a dry mouth, but gathered herself and said: "No, not today." The woman hesitated, smiled crookedly, pushed back a strand of hair and replied: "Okay, a regular one will do." And then she added more quietly, as if apologising and warning at the same time: "You'll still have time." Maja furrowed her brow; a fresh line appeared on the page: "Key from the drawer, roof, twilight, wires sing". She closed the shop at 6.30pm, turned the sign over and slipped the brass meter key into her pocket. She didn't know if it would fit anything else, but the notebook ticked: "Trust, go now". The air outside was heavy, the wires buzzed like distant insects, and the loop was suddenly empty. She stepped through the puddles, found a metal door she hadn't noticed before, with a round lock in the middle. The key turned with a soft click; the stairs led upwards, into a twilight smelling of dust and ozone. On the roof, the city unfolded like a map; the windows of blocks of flats glowed like aquariums; somewhere someone was playing an etude. Above them, the tram wires were taut as strings, their tone trembling in Maja's chest. On the concrete, close to the edge, stood a wooden stool; on it a parcel in brown paper, tied with red string. The notebook warmed in her pocket; when she opened it, the letters grew on their own, like mist turning to ink. She read: "Don't open yet. Listen" and she lifted her head above the edge of the roof, attentive as a camertone. The buzzing was arranged in syllables, almost words, like the conversation of two trams, too fast for the human ear. Something flashed between the cables, like the reflection of a face in water; someone was waiting on the other side, with a hand raised.