In Brzeziny, autumn smelled of roasted chestnuts, wet leaves and cotton candy. In the market square, the pumpkin-shaped lights twinkled orange and the bagel stalls dragged with the tasty smell. Towering over everything was the Clock Tower with its black hands, which always seemed to be slightly behind the wind. Lena had an eleven on her neck, a torch in her pocket and enough freckles to draw a map of the sky with them. Next to her walked Igor, a year older, with a checkered notebook and a pencil that didn't like to get dull. In front hopped Hops, a white and brown dog with ears like wings and a nose that always knew where something interesting was happening. "Trick or treat!" resounded from every direction. Children in capes, hats and masks flitted between the stalls and the adults smiled as if they could be in fifth grade again for a moment. Lena and Igor already had their pockets full of landers when Hops suddenly stopped so abruptly that his leash tightened. On the doorstep of the bookshop "Under the Owl Hood" stood a pumpkin. It did not have the typical jagged face. Instead, someone had carved a network of lines and dots into the skin, as if it were a street plan. A greenish light flicked inside, as if from a lime bottle. The bookshop was closed, but the pumpkin was evaporating a light mist that the wind had arranged in thin strands. Igor crouched down and smirked at Hops to make him stop barking. "Look," he whispered to Lena. - "This looks like a market. Here's the fountain, here's Mr. Gourmet's bakery... only there's another alley. See? So narrow, like it's drawn with a sharp nail." Lena put her hand to the smooth surface of the pumpkin. The skin was warm and the lines seemed deeper than they looked. At the bottom, right next to a cutout resembling the shape of a Clock Tower, were carved the words: "Where the twelfth is silent, there look for the thirteenth." "That's some kind of clue," Igor stated, jotting down the sentence in his notebook. - "And... I think someone did it on purpose. For someone who can look." "Or for us." - Lena smiled crookedly, though she felt a chill shiver pass between her shoulder blades. - "Do you remember what the watchman from the town hall told you? That once, a long time ago, the clock struck thirteen. And apparently the Tower isn't just a tower." Hops whined unexpectedly softly, as if he wanted to express something, but wasn't sure if it was appropriate. The bustle in the market was still cheerful, but here, in front of the bookshop, there was a shadow. Lena looked around and took out her phone. "I'll text my mum that we're at the tower," - she said. - "I don't want her to worry." She sent a short text message. Igor did the same, adding the tip: "15 more minutes." With the map-dyna in their hands (because they couldn't call it anything else now) they set off towards the Clock Tower. Hops led the way, placing his paws confidently like a guide on a well-known trail. When they found themselves at the wall, the alley on the left seemed narrower than they remembered. It was called the Vanishing Cat's Alley because in the past umbrellas and single gloves were said to have disappeared in it. Now the wind was also disappearing into it. Lena compared the cut-out plan with the real tenements. A line, which Igor called "an extra street", led straight to the corner at the base of the tower. There, at knee height, the stone slab had a crack so thin you had to bend over to see it. Right next to it, someone had marked a small mark on the wall - a circle with a line, identical to the one that shone in the pumpkin pattern. "Put the pumpkin on," Igor asked, blowing frantically on his cold hands. - "Maybe... I don't know, maybe it will fit." Lena pressed the pumpkin against the wall. The greenish light inside dimmed, as if taking a breath, then shifted, hitting the crack perfectly. At the same moment, the first strike of the clock sounded in the marketplace. Hops lifted her ears and Lena felt the torch glass cool her hand. One. Two. Three. The beating of the clock sounded more serious than usual, like the voice of someone who is telling a story and doesn't want to be interrupted. Four. Five. Six. On the seventh, a streak of mist came over the market and hugged the lighthouse. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleventh... twelfth. And then there was silence. The kind that seems greater than sound. Lena was holding a pumpkin, Igor was looking at a crack in the wall. Hops didn't bark, he just squeaked slightly, as if he heard something that human ears don't yet catch. "That would be it," - whispered Igor, although he did not sound at all convinced. And then, with a delay that shouldn't have happened, the clock gave one more beat. The thirteenth. A fine dust sprinkled from the walls. The scratch glowed with a warm light, like a line shining on a dark sketch. The pumpkin in Lena's hands fluttered with flame; a new dot appeared on the map-within-a-map - exactly where they stood. The stone slab twitched and began to slide out, millimetre by millimetre, as if someone was pushing it from inside. A chill blew in, but not the usual November chill. It was like the breath of a library hidden underground: the smell of paper, dust and cinnamon, mixed with something that resembled wet moss. "Do you hear?" - Lena asked, although she felt, more than heard, a rustling sound. Something like pages being turned. Something like footsteps on the far step. Something like quiet laughter that was neither fearful nor joyful. Hops stood stiffly, his tail stopped in a half swipe. His muzzle expressed the same question that Lena and Igor had in their eyes: what now? Lena raised her torch and sent a beam of light into the crack. Metal shimmered in the depths - a pendulum? or perhaps the handle of a small lantern? The light bounced off something round and danced across their shoes. "Hello?" - said Igor, in a voice that was supposed to be sure, but who could tell. - "If there's someone there... we didn't come to disturb you." Silence answered. And only... well, not only. There was a short sound from below, as if someone was gently tapping metal against metal. Once. Then a second, a third - an unhurried rhythm that arranged itself into something like an invitation. The plate retreated still to the thickness of a hand. A shadow shimmered in the gap. Lena placed the pumpkin on the ground. The pattern on its skin had changed and now looked like the swirling of leaves in a well. Instinctively, Igor squeezed the pencil so hard that it left a red line on his finger. Hops took a breath in, as dogs do when they have already decided to keep watch. "On the count of three we'll look in," - whispered Lena to give herself courage. - "Once..." At the same moment, something on the other side touched the lock from the inside. They heard a distinct jawing sound. The key, which they had not seen, turned on its own.