The first Monday after the holidays smelled of wet jackets and a freshly posted newspaper. Lena slipped into the high school corridor, flicking through the timetable on her phone. A mysterious item appeared between chemistry and Polish: Local History, Room 314A. There were no letters next to the numbers in our school, just red tape next to the old wing. In history, the teacher announced that the centenary of the school was approaching and he needed researchers of legends. He mentioned Principal Zawada's lost diary, which supposedly ended with an unsigned sentence. When I opened the notebook, a sheet of even, neat handwriting slid out from between the pages. 19:12, 314A, bring a torch - proclaimed a note similar to the diploma signature in the study. After dark, I returned, because curiosity and the school paper are an unstoppable combination. Waiting by the tape was Oskar from the debate, equally intrigued and, unfortunately, just as stubborn as I was. - Did you get the strange signal too? - I asked, hiding the torch in the sleeve of my jacket. - 'As many as two, because someone thinks I need an assist,' he snarled, however, moving first under the tape. The corridor of the old wing smelled of rosin, and the panels creaked in the wake of the phone lights. Behind the trophy cabinet we found door 314A, obscured by a rolled-up county map and caution tape. There was a faint LED blinking in the keyhole, which flared more brightly when I pointed the torch at it. The lock clicked and inside, a room with benches stacked against the window and a faded blackboard awaited. On the desk was a metal cassette with a 1998 stamp and a Polaroid taped to it. The girl in the picture was standing under our coat of arms and her profile was disturbingly similar to mine. The clock above the door jumped to 19:12 and began to tick backwards, as if someone had undone the mechanism. We both simultaneously grabbed the tape and then our phones blinked and lost range. Footsteps came from the corridor, regular and determined, not unlike the heavy gait of a caretaker. Someone slid a key into the lock, and the chalkboard itself drew three letters: LEN. Oskar looked at me warningly, twisted the lid of the cassette by a millimetre and, without a word, put his finger to his lips. The doorknob vibrated twice and an old overhead projector buzzed above the blackboard, self-consciously switched on. A list of names and dates appeared on the wall, with the two of us at the end. Both dates were from next Friday, and next to them was a single word: PROTOCOL. A quiet whisper came from outside, as if the door was asking us for an answer we didn't yet know.