Lena came to the technical library late in the evening, when the street smelled of rain and the scaffolding creaked. In her pocket she carried her grandmother's envelope with a small brass key and a note: "Atlas remembers". Renovations had closed the edifice to readers, but the side door had not closed all the way for years. She pressed them with her hip, slipped into the semi-darkness and heard the echo swallow her breath. She liked these voids, the quiet clatter of the drops in the great windows. Today, however, something trembled inside her like a string, a quiet, insistent anticipation. The warehouse of plans was hidden behind a green curtain, between rolls of maps standing like sleeping animals. The torchlight on her phone cut through the dust, showing the gold lettering on the cabinet once claimed by legend. "Special atlases - keeper only". The lock was old, matching the brass key, so Lena hardly trembled when the bolt's click sounded too loud. Inside lay a single book, dark, heavy as wet stone, with no author and no year. She touched the cover and felt warm, as if someone had just held it. There was nothing on the first page but a thin grid of scales and a drop mark. As she ran her finger over it, the lines began to come together until suddenly she saw a plan of her own city, but stranger than when she woke up. The streets had familiar names, but between them slipped narrow passages she didn't know. From one corner came the microscopic sound of a bell; on the map, a drawn tram from the year 1905 moved. 'Impossible,' she whispered, and immediately looked ashamedly into the emptiness of the room. She thought of her grandmother's kitchen, cinnamon in the air, and the thread of the "Kaneli" street crawling past the park. Letters appeared in the margin, as if someone had written in their sleep: "Don't draw loneliness. Don't come in after nine o'clock." The clock in the corridor struck half past eight, and Lena laughed quietly at her own shudder. At that moment she heard footsteps, heavy and steady, echoing in the empty hall. She hid the atlas under a sheet of tarpaulin and huddled behind a cupboard, counting the guard's breaths. The footsteps passed, the key rattled in another locked room, and the silence returned, even denser. She slid the atlas back onto the table; the edges of the pages were now warm as a slap. A tiny dot of light shimmered on the edge of the map, right next to the lighthouse, followed by a tiny door sign. Something in the paper trembled, as if catching its breath, and Lena noticed a narrow split in the crease at the bottom of the pages. The air from the map smelled of salt and soot, and a single, soft knock came from deep within. - Hello? - she said without conviction, lifting the pencil like a wand. The pencil twitched on its own and put a cross in the margin, and the drawn door swung open from the inside.