On Christmas Eve, thick snow covered the boulevard and streets of the Old Town. There was the smell of poppy seed cake in her grandmother's flat and an empty place setting waiting on the table. Nela was fourteen and preferred riddles to herring in oil. Olek, two years younger, was hanging around by the window and counting the petals. The doorbell sounded like someone tapping a spoon against porcelain. On the doormat lay a package wrapped in grey paper and tied with string. It had no stamp, no address, and no sender's name, only an imprinted silver star. Inside rested a wooden box with a brass lock and a small key. On the lid someone had carefully carved the words: Open it when the bells fall silent. - 'It's a joke from your parents, you'll see,' whispered Olek, running his finger over the varnish. - 'Or from grandma, only late,' replied Nela, feeling a strange tingling sensation. The clock in the kitchen chimed nineteen o'clock, and carols flowed from the cathedral. The chandelier winked, as if snow had cut the light, and Figa disappeared under the sofa. The box trembled slightly, and frost appeared on its edge. - 'We're supposed to wait until it's quiet,' Nela said, even though she was also in a hurry. When the bells finally fell silent, the key turned itself in the lock. The lid lifted, letting out a cold glare and the melody of a short, unfamiliar carol. Inside, instead of a gift, lay a thin glass disc with a needle like a compass. A map of the city spilled across the glass, drawn with glistening frost and warm breath. A silver dot flashed over the darkest alley, right by the old granaries on the Vistula. A creaking footstep on the balcony came from outside, and snow drifted off the railing. Olek wanted to call his parents, but then someone knocked three times on the glass. A shadow moved across the curtain, and the balcony handle slowly began to fall. The glass disc shuddered and pointed to a second spot, right under their table. The empty cover moved a millimetre, as if someone had just now sat down on the chair. A whisper flowed from the box that they did not understand, yet recognised by the voice. - 'Children, it's time to go,' he whispered, and the handle dropped all the way.