On Thursday evenings, I was on duty in the city archive, hidden under the old fort. Dust was pouring from the ceiling and the fans sounded like distant rain. My grandmother used to say that underground it is easier to hear the seams of the world if you are silent. From her, I was left with a camertone in a case and a notebook with cursive marks. That day, the camertone dangled on its own, although no one touched it today. In the west corridor hung a mural of a door, painted years ago by high school students. It had always been matt, but now it shimmered, as if something breathed under the paint. The compass on the phone spun in circles and the Wi-Fi disappeared in waves. Oscar walked in with a mug of cocoa, standing at attention before my seriousness. "Do you seriously want to sit here into the night?" - he asked, glancing anxiously at the mural. I slammed my camerawork against the railing and pressed it against the concrete, hoping for silence. Instead, the corridor was filled with a low tremor, as if someone was tuning an invisible piano. The paint wrinkled and moved away, revealing the narrow outline of the doorway from the cool light. It smelled of ozone and resin, although no pine trees grew by the river. - Lena, this is a very bad idea - Oskar took a step back. I found an identical pattern in my grandmother's notebook, signed: Entrance when the clocks are silent. I touched the luminous outline and my skin trembled, like in the morning frost, but harder. The metal in the doorway played a note, which the camertone took up, reinforcing the rhythm. A quiet knock was answered from deep within, followed by someone whispering my name, clearly and strangely. - Who is there? - Oskar lowered his voice as if the library might wake up. Beyond the threshold flicked a street, similar to ours, but all the shadows stood against the sun. In the site's mirror I saw myself in that other street, wearing the same coat. She had a scar on her cheek that I never had, and she held my notebook. Raising her hand, she drew a mark in the air from the cover, and the light thickened. "For a short time," she said silently, very clearly, "before she pulls the seam here again." The threshold sucked in air, Oskar's shoelace tangled in the luminous edge and disappeared. I grabbed his arm as the door widened like a ripped fabric and something leaned out of the other side. A pencil fell out of my pocket and stopped at the very metal threshold. From the other side rolled a twin pencil, pink, to the edge of the corridor. "Choose quickly!" - whispered someone from outside the light - "or he'll go first now". The phone whined, the seconds counter started counting backwards, and the wall trembled with waves of concrete. A hand slipped out of the darkness and the counter counted down: three.