The old town library watched over the river like a boat moored in the dark, with windows like eyes. Night duty always fell to Lena, because she knew how to listen to the murmurs that others didn't notice. The rain pounded a rhythm against the windows, and the clock in the reading room tinkled with a metal heart. Lena closed the heavy door behind her, put a bunch of keys on the desk and switched on the lamp with the green shade. The light fell on a return card and a parcel that no one had announced, squeezed under a stack of magazines. The water in the radiators sang thinly, heralding a night that did not like questions but provoked them. The age-old box bore the faded seal of a deleted monastery and a brief annotation in black ink. "To the hands of the night librarian, according to custom, without delay." - she read in a half-hearted voice, sensing the slat of the tabletop trembling under the rain. She removed the cord and lifted the lid, slowly, as if opening a cage whose occupants no one could see. Inside lay a leather-covered book that smelled of the river and the coolness of stone. It was as warm as a cheek and breathed shallowly, an invisible movement on the edge of the pages. A slip of paper with three rules still stuck at the bottom of the box, written in an even, obedient hand. "Do not read aloud, do not open after midnight, do not give your real name." It was twelve o'clock without two minutes on the clock, so Lena smiled wryly. "We'll see." - she whispered to the empty hall, placing the book on the lectern where a warm stream of lamplight circulated. A tram flew past the glass, its light cutting through the reading room like a moving razor. When she touched the cover, dust rose like steam over tea and formed into a gill-like mark. Lena's grandmother had once told of a whisperer who could restore forgotten names to people and places. Lena had pretended not to believe it at the time, but she had learned to hide her name behind a mask of diminutives. Now the cover rippled under her fingers like the side of a sleeping cat, and the tissue paper inside rustled like grass. The title page was blank, but slowly lines appeared, first like divers maps, then like a reading room plan. Words also appeared, describing her steps from a moment ago, with the precision of a chair creaking. "Give me a name and I'll open a passage," the letters drew themselves up, as if someone had written on water with a needle. The clock struck thirteen, although the mechanism had never known such a number, and fluorescent lights went out throughout the building. The door to the storeroom swung open about a hand's width and breathed a chill in which the smell of lilies and ash mingled. A lullaby, exactly the one her grandmother used to hum when Lena pretended to sleep, came from the dark clearance. She took a breath to say the false name when someone behind her repeated it in her own voice.