After nine hours of school, seventeen-year-old Nina was closing her family's corner vegetable shop in the evening. She would slide the grille, count the cash register, wipe down the countertop smelling of parsley and sweet tangerines. The quietest buzz was the little receipt printer, which sometimes did something really strange. After the last customer, it was able to slide out an extra strip, as if it had something to say. These strips were tiny, a bit ridiculous, but they worked surprisingly often. "Take an umbrella" meant a downpour, "call your grandmother" saved her plan for the weekend. Nina didn't tell anyone about it, she treated the printer like a backroom whisper. That Tuesday, the printer whined, as if thinking, and spit out something else. The receipt had a time of 21:17, a total of 0, and three items that no one had ordered. "Normal ticket", "don't leave your bag", "tram 9" were printed thicker than usual. A square code pulsed at the bottom, like a black grille breathing in the cold. The neon sign above the door blinked, the cat from the gate stopped and looked straight at Nina. Nina took a picture, sent it to Olek, and he wrote back: "Go, at most there will be a meme". She smiled crookedly, put the receipt in her pocket, finished washing and turned off the light. At 9:10 p.m. she got on the nine, clutching her bag of notebooks tighter than usual. The rain was tapping against the windows, the seats were warm and the carriage smelled of wet jackets. The cashier wailed briefly, someone in the back chewed gum and the driver hummed the radio. When the clock above the door clicked 21:17, the strip of paper in his pocket became noticeably warm. The digits on the print began to move apart, like drops on a windowpane, revealing a new line. "Skierniewicka 4B, gate from the courtyard" flowed out in black ink, as fresh as a pen just typed. The tram stopped at Młynów, and Nina stood up without a plan, trembling from uncomfortable curiosity. She got off in the smell of fried chips, passed a kiosk and a closed pawnshop, and jumped over a puddle. Gate 4B stood open, the intercom glowing with her only name: "P.P.", which she did not recognise from the estate. The door let go when first pressed, as if someone was waiting, but no one answered. The staircase smelled of powder and dust, and a loose fluorescent light flashed on the mezzanine. To the left stood a wooden door with a milky glass pane, behind which paper strips swung. She slipped inside and saw a room the size of a kiosk, full of cords of receipts. On the table was an identical printer that had just ejected a fresh strip with her name and one sentence: "Don't turn around". Just behind Nina, someone quietly set foot on the last step of the stairs.