Lena was familiar with the woods behind the estate, but had never gone in there after dark. That evening she was carrying a camera, tripod and permission for a project about forgotten places. Oskar walked beside her, tapping his torch against his backpack, as if chasing away invisible insects. Their destination was Station Seven, a former meteorological shed on the edge of the reserve. The fence had no chain, just a dangling piece of paper with a sign: "Do not enter after dusk". The air was damp and frogs hopped in the grass, fleeing their steps. The door to the stall gave way without resistance, leaving dust and specks of rust on my hands. Inside, it smelled of paper, oil and thunder, although the sky was still calm. Lena set up the equipment and Oskar lit the lamp, drawing golden circles on the wall. On the desk lay the observer's journal, thick with a crumpled corner and dried mud. She opened on the last page and read the entry from a year ago, written in shaky handwriting. "You mustn't measure the wind at midnight when the notation starts to correct itself." Oskar snorted with laughter, but on the quivering needle of the barometer, their certainty also trembled. At the back of the cupboard stood a shortwave radio, an old one with a worn knob and a stick-on label. Someone had called it 'Whisperer', and next to it lay headphones and a coiled, heavy cable. Lena touched the switch, sure that the device was dead because the power was out in the booth. A quiet crackle came from the speaker, like rain on tin, and then someone sighed. A voice emerged from the crackling: "Lena, you have five minutes left to measure, repeat." Then the countdown started, "Five, four, three...", although no one touched the microphone. Oskar pressed his finger to his lips, and Lena's breathing was tightened, as if something was listening to them. A map of the fronts hung on the wall, marked with pins arranged in the shape of today's date. A hidden power diode blinked by the floor, although a cable led to an empty strip. Behind the thick warehouse door something rattled, as if the heavy handle had moved for the first time in years. The countdown reached 'two', the red pressure indicator jumped and the door began to slowly swing open. Lena was about to say it was a silly joke when she heard her own accent. The voice on the radio sounded like her after the illness, hoarse but stubbornly precise. A spool of tape lay on the windowsill, labeled with a marker: 'Sample L-7, midnight, for Lena only'. Oskar nodded towards the door, but curiosity squeezed her tighter than fear. As the countdown uttered "one", the dry click of a heavy relay sounded in the booth. Cold air gushed from the dark gap and a narrow, pulsating line of light flashed. Someone, still invisible, whispered a word from inside that only she knew.