On the top floor of the school library, Lena found a map that no one had catalogued. The paper smelled of rain and dust, as if someone had dried it in a storm. Instead of continents, it had a network of roads and arrows leading to words instead of cities. In the corner a pencil scribbled the title: the Atlas of Imagination, first edition and probably unfinished. A torn edge held an old clip, as if someone was afraid it would escape again. Lena liked things unfinished because they reminded her of the sketches she collected after school. She was in her matriculation class, but her head was busy jotting down quiet details. After school, she was on duty in the library, instead of tutoring, because she liked the quiet of the shelves. In the evening, the city grew thick with fog and the lights in the corridor went out in regular breaths. She had no talent for sports, but she could draw roads from memory. When she unrolled the map, the lines moved slightly, as if breathing after a long stillness. She ran her finger from the word Questions to the drawing of a whale painted on the school wall. The floor trembled slightly and a corridor with a door without a handle formed on the paper. Beside the door in small print was a warning: Entrance only works with bold imagery. In the line of the corridor, delicate numbers appeared, like locker numbers in a swimming pool. Lena squirmed, but took out a pencil and drew the missing handle, an ordinary metal one. At the same moment, the bookcase behind her grunted and shifted by the thickness of a book. There was no wall behind the bookcase, just a narrow gap smelling of damp dust and the ocean. She tucked the map under her sweatshirt and stuck the pencil in her hair like a pin. The world in the map shimmered, as if the pencil was a remote control for an unruly projector. - Don't do silly things,' she said to herself, although silly things rarely really stopped her. She squeezed the handle of the drawn door, and the metal responded with a chill like the evening railings of a bridge. A barely audible noise came from the corridor, reminiscent of distant waves and turning pages. Then the light in the library blinked twice, and a thin line cracked underfoot. Through the crack wafted the scent of the peppermint lozenges the doorman chewed during his nightly rounds. In the dark mirror of the window she saw someone behind her who had her face but older eyes. - 'Lena,' said the image, but the lips in the glass did not move an inch. - Atlas never opens two passages at once. If you go in, you leave something on this side. In response, the glass fogged up from the inside, as if the window was breathing from another world. Lena took a breath, pressed the handle all the way, and from behind the door someone whispered her name.