My name is Zosia and I am seven years old. I live with my mother in a block of flats on the corner. Today it's raining, the window has drops like beads. The kitchen smells of oatmeal and warm milk. My grandmother gave me a small wooden spoon. She said: "This is a spoon for miracles, darling." I stir the oatmeal and blow on the steam. The steam dances and draws a picture in the air. I see our kitchen, but there is something new. At the bottom of the cabinets, a small blue door glows. I look under the sink and move the bucket and broom. There, a small golden key really shines. I hear a quiet "knock, knock" as if from a box. "Who's there?" I whisper and kneel on the rug. The knob on the door shakes and turns. There is a smell of cinnamon and rain from the hole. "Hello?" a little voice calls back, very, very thin. I want to answer, but the spoon warms my hand. A tiny golden spot flashes at its end. The door creaks and swings open a finger's way. Behind them I can see light and someone's shadow.