My name is Lena, I am seventeen years old and this summer I am working in an antique shop. The shop is called 'Whisper of Shelves' and it stands on a wet, windy harbour street. The smell of dust here mixes with salt, grease and old ink. Mrs Rose, the owner, lets me sort out the shelves while I sort out my thoughts. And just then I find a book that shouldn't be here. It slides from behind a loose board like a fish from under a quay, thin and cold. On the cover is the title: 'Imagination Manual for Beginners', with no author and no date. Inside, blank pages, except for the first, where I see one sentence and a drawing of a key. "Draw what is missing, close the book and breathe slowly until you believe." I laugh, but put the book on the counter, pull out a pencil and draw a star. Exactly the kind I've been missing from my backpack for a week. I close the cover and count my breaths to ten, a little embarrassed by my own submissiveness. After a moment, a metallic sound falls to the floor, like when a button falls. I pick it up and feel that the edges are still warm. In the evening I come in with Patrick, a cousin who doesn't believe in any tricks. I show him the star attached to my backpack and the book, which is still silent. - 'It was probably in his pocket,' he mutters, but stays still as I start to draw an alley. I draw a plan: a narrow passageway next to number five, a door without a sign, a leaf-shaped handle. I close the book, breathe until my fingers tingle slightly, and then we run out. Port Street is as it has always been, but between the third and fifth tenements something slides open. Where there was a blind wall, a shadow darker than dusk appears. Patrick stops muttering and lifts his phone, but the light goes out as if someone has eaten it. We return to The Shelf Whisperer because the door in the drawing was the door of an antiquarian bookshop, only rearranged. The book lies, but the first page is no longer lonely; several warnings have been added in ink. "Don't open if you can't remember what you left behind; don't draw what you can't bear". The shelves stand still, but the outline of a leaf-shaped door handle can be seen behind the lowest back board. - 'After all, it wasn't here,' says Patrick in a whisper, as if someone is eavesdropping from a book. I touch the board and feel a chill that doesn't belong in any familiar room. Then, from inside, on the side that is not there, comes the short sound of a lock. Something is turning a paper key, the one I have drawn mindlessly next to the title. I slide the drawing out, and it hardens in my hand, as if it were growing a metal core. Footsteps can be heard from the other side, although no one is working here anymore at this hour. The air smells of sea and ink, and the shelves begin to rustle with the repetition of my name. I look at Patrick, who only nods, and put the key to the cold door handle. The latch gives way with a click, and the door, which I have drawn all too carefully, begins to open.