Olek was finishing his volunteer duty at the estate library when the emergency light went down. Mrs Krysia in the reading room muttered something about hopeless installations and handed him a key. In the lost-and-found box lay a checkered notebook, covered in plain linen, strangely warm. There was nothing on the first page but a stamp: Reading Room, May eighty-ninth. - 'If nobody picks it up by the end of the month, take it,' she threw in carelessly. In the block of flats on the tenth floor, the wind was knocking on the windows as if counting the floors. Olek wrote his name on the first line, with an ordinary pen, a little uncertainly. In the morning he saw the same name in chalk, on the concrete under the thirteenth floor, although no one there has chalk. He tried with buttons: he asked for a green one by the bench, and found it after school. The smell of warm yeast from the bakery suddenly seemed sharper, as if the city had read one word. In his pocket, the notebook pulsed quietly, like a phone on vibrate, though it was paper. He did tests, small and harmless: two gums from the machine instead of one, three minutes without rain. The pages faded slightly when the request was met, as if losing ink to the pavement. He told Nadia about the notebook, because he always told her everything anyway. - Stop it, it's a coincidence, the city has a life of its own,' she snorted, but took it for a test run. The vending machine gave them change in coins wrapped in a receipt that showed yesterday's tomorrow. Nadia, usually tough, stopped joking when the receipt changed the date right before her eyes. He was preparing a presentation on Bialoszewski in high school and the projector was jamming like an old tram. So he wrote in a notebook simply: keep the image sharp, keep it on. It worked, but underneath the sentence grew a second poem, not his, darker, slightly wet. Bring me to the Gdansk Bridge at midnight tonight, alone, without witnesses - the pages themselves wrote. A line appeared in the margins like a track, leading through the bus stop, the lights and the water. Olek felt it wasn't a request, more of an order, written in the voice of the whole city. - 'Don't go,' Nadia said as she read it, and looked at him with indignation. - 'What if this is just another trick of the city, the kind that works to the limit? Olek listened to the warming radiator, which clocked in evenly, as if counting the steps to midnight. He opened his notebook and the ink rose like mist and drew a bridge of dark lines. In the glass of the night tram on the other side appeared his name, written on the inside. From behind the door came a single thud, as if someone had tapped the doorframe from inside.