My name is Lena and I inherited my aunt's watchmaking business with a shop window full of dust and sunshine. The cuckoo clock hung crooked, the barometer remembered a different weather, and tiny screws trembled under the glass domes. I closed the door, turned the sign to 'Closed' and decided to take stock before I showed the place to anyone. All that could be heard in the silence was a ticking that sounded like the breathing of an old house. The first to sound was the barometer. "We're falling," it sighed, as if commenting on its own wellbeing. Then the steel gauge slid into its case with a clatter and purred: "Turn us into numbers and we'll disappear." I didn't lift my head. I pretended it was an echo, that it was the pipes, that I was tired. Then the radio, unplugged, asked: "Turn off the anxiety and we'll hear each other." I put down my pen. "Am I crazy?" I asked aloud. "Not yet," snorted the spring tweezers. "But we don't have much time." It turned out that this is the place where things talk when someone is listening, and fall silent when someone puts things off until tomorrow. "We'll disappear the speech if you don't find the Anchor of Words," the workshop lamp announced, casting a circle of light on the tabletop. "My aunt kept it in the lion clock" added the casket, its lid rattling like a tooth. "An anchor?" she repeated. "Small, heavy, shiny. It ties the letter to the breath," the old punch explained, pecking at the map in the paper. "Someone took it out just before dusk" whispered the tape measure. "Who?" "The cleaner. The one who collects loose words from under the slats," the radio replied, blurring the silence. "He left footprints in the dust. They lead to the back." The door to the back room creaked open, as if wondering if they wanted to cooperate. Behind them it was cool and damp, and dead drops lingered in the sink. A key in the shape of a wing was stuck in the padlock leading to the basement. A typical porcelain tiger on the shelf grunted. "Don't turn off the tap," he advised quietly. "Why?" "Because it awakens what flows between the words." The lamplight slid across the wall, stopped over a narrow panel behind a tall clock. I moved the wood and took out a small, empty velvet pouch. It was warm, as if it had just hidden something alive inside. A footprint glistened on the floor, a thin streak like a filigree of moonlight, leading towards the drain grating. "Slowly," asked the tweezer, perched on my shoulder like a bird. "Don't say your name if she asks" added the radio, now completely serious. I moved closer to the grille. It smelled of ink and old typewriter ribbons. Somewhere in the tubes voices whispered, shifted, tried to form a question. Suddenly the air quickened, as if the house had taken a deeper breath, and a polite, high-pitched whisper came from the darkness beneath the floor: "Owner of time, what is your name?"