My town is called Szumowo and it sounds like an instruction manual to wave. It's the kind of patch by the sea where seagulls have louder opinions than councillors, and the lighthouse looks like someone who doesn't like to be disturbed at nap time. During the day it bites the wind, at night it flashes cold, and I, Lena Czernik, hope that one day I'll grow up to the point where I no longer have to explain why I'm going home with a screw in my pocket again. When you're fourteen and have a friend in the form of a big wooden cupboard full of cables, your life automatically gets more interesting. Except for Mondays. Mondays are always mischievous. Fortunately, I still had Oskar. Oskar is the kind of person who can turn off the Wi-Fi with a glance from his critical grandmother. He carries a rucksack heavier than his conscience and can squeeze anything into it - from a sandwich that has long since given notice to a roll of tape 'just in case physics stops'. Our favourite place was Uncle Hippolyte's basement. Biologically he was my mother's neighbour, professionally a self-proclaimed inventor and stylistically a man who plays hide-and-seek with reason in the hardware shop. Uncle's basement smelled of vanilla (because he once smashed extract) and old motor oil (because he once smashed an engine). On the shelves stood jars labelled: "Cables - important", "Cables - even more important", "Cables - don't ask". - 'Attention to the sensitive, the impatient and the flammable,' Uncle said when we first brought our scheme to him. - That is, for everything. We found the diagram in his notebook between a recipe for cherry dumplings and a drawing of a piece of cake described: "prototype of an anti-dissolution sleeve". We were stopped by a piece of paper with the title 'Acoustic Event Notifier: Bugofon'. It sounded scientific, and looked like a colander with an antenna. Underneath, Uncle had scrawled: "Hears what's about to happen, but hasn't yet decided if it's worth it". - 'This is brilliant,' said Oscar, who has a knack for falling in love with things that definitely don't have a heart. - 'We'll record the future and send it to the science club competition. We'll win gold, fame and an everlasting supply of sausages in a pie. - Thank you, but instead of sausages I prefer the lack of explosions," I replied. That's how the Bugofon 2.1 came about. Version 1.0 ended up as a pot stand because it had a difficult relationship with the socket. We collected headphones from the 1990s, a meter that probably only measured its own frustration, and a colander that used to be a colander but now wanted to become an icon of science. Plus two kettle cables, rubber from a skipping rope (flexibility is in vogue) and something Uncle called 'a drop of courage' and twisted into a tiny bottle. - What is it? - I asked. - Raspberry juice. But you have to believe in the faith label,' he replied seriously. The test plan was simple: a lighthouse. Firstly, it is tall. Secondly, it shines. Thirdly, no one looks there since the municipality has bricked up the passage down, claiming that "the lighthouse is not a place for improvisation". A sign on the fence read: "Entering without meaning to is strictly forbidden", which in Shumov was as precise as it could be. It started at dusk. The sea looked to have made an agreement with the sky to feign seriousness. The wind carried salt, cold and comments from seagulls: "Ladies and gentlemen, here are two specimens of teenage bravery on a short guarantee". Oscar carried the rucksack, I carried the Bugofon. The colander sat surprisingly confidently on my head, as if he had always dreamed of such a career. - 'If you start to pick up the radio, switch to a station that doesn't shout,' asked Oskar, plugging in the last cable. - 'If you start picking up common sense, don't unplug,' I replied. The lighthouse seemed to be sleeping standing up, with an eyelid of yellow light that blinked out to sea from time to time. We sat down on the steps, where the paint was peeling like an old comic book, and turned on the Bugofon. The indicator blinked. A hum flowed through the headphones. First the usual kind: the sea, the wind, seagulls sticking comments. Then something else, as if someone in the distance was moving a chair across a wooden floor where no one was standing. - Can you hear it? - Oskar leaned over, as if he could make out the sound with his hand. - I hear something hesitating. Like a decision - I whispered, laughing to myself. - Or like my cat before jumping on the windowsill. At that moment the lantern light blinked strangely, shorter and faster, as if someone inside had yawned and fumbled the switches. We looked at each other. Oskar raised his eyebrows so high that they almost went under his cap. - 'Probably the twilight sensor,' he said in the tone of someone trying to sound calm and not succeeding at all. - 'Sure. And the seagulls pay taxes. The bugophone groaned and began to make a sound reminiscent of playing with a rubber band from a skipping rope. The pointer swung away, as if it had seen the future and decided it was movie material. In my headphones I heard short taps, pauses, taps again. They reminded me of Boy Scout camping and Morse, which I had learned only to send Oskar "I'm bored" messages in class. - This is... - Oskar was already reaching for his phone. - This is the code? If a seagull just asks me for the number of my hairdresser, I'm going out of business. I started counting: short, long, pause, short again. With my finger I drew dots and dashes on the cold metal of the railing. The light of the lantern cooperated like last night's TV remote control. After a minute, I clumped the letters together. - O... T... W... Ó... R... Z... - I pronounced slowly. - "OPEN." - No no. Either this lighthouse has a sense of humour, or they've let someone in who embraces the past and promotions at the light bulb shop," Oskar stated. - 'What are we not to open, because it's always the "wrong jar". Before I had time to reply, I felt a tremor beneath my feet, at first slight, like the tinkling of a fridge, then more pronounced. There was a crack in the wall at the base of the lamppost, exactly where the old bricked-up door had been. I watched the dust fall silently - even the seagulls became quiet. The scratch widened and bent, drawing a rectangle. Someone inside was not using a spirit level, but was making progress. The bugophone crackled. Sounds that weren't sounds popped up in the headphones: a whisper that hadn't yet become a whisper, footsteps that hadn't yet decided to step, and laughter that was just looking for a joke. I don't want to claim that we weren't scared at the time, because that would be as big a lie as Uncle Castorama's bill. But I'll be honest: curiosity has a smell - in my case, it's salt, dust and a hint of raspberry juice. - Okay - Oskar took a torch out of his rucksack, the kind that can put a day to shame. - 'If this is the moment we should give up, say now before I turn it on. You know, so we can pretend later that we were responsible to the end. - 'Turn it on,' I said, before my sensible self remembered that it had my name. The beam of light stuck to the wall, which no longer pretended to have a life of its own. The white line widened into a crack. A piece of brick fell away and clattered against the step. A chill blew from inside, but not the usual kind. It was a cold with the taste of ink and something that reminded me of long-opened books. I don't know why - maybe because my mother is a Polish teacher and the books in the house always smelled like a plan. This cold smelled like a plan that someone had put upside down. - Lena - Oskar said quietly, which meant he was just switching to a serious channel. - Indicator. Look. The Bugofon indicator, which until then had been hopping around like a frog on sugar, suddenly straightened up and went to the right. On the scale, which we had scrawled ourselves with a marker, there was a heading for 'Probability of stupidity'. Oskar had once added "0-100%" as a joke, and this morning, also as a joke, I had added "100-102%". So now the pointer went beyond "102%" and calmly stayed the course. - Maybe that means we are outstanding," whispered Oskar with the seriousness of a man who has just greeted his own courage and does not know its name. The gap widened a few more centimetres, like a wide, shy smile. A sound came from the darkness. First a crunch, then something like a grunt. And then... a sneeze. Loud, emphatic and completely incongruous with the tale of the wind that sometimes plays on tourists' nerves. - Cheers...? - I took a chance, because sometimes politeness is the only torch you have. Someone - or something - inside grunted. The bugophone whined and for half a second I got a wave of sound in my headphones that resembled my voice. Not the same as now, but kind of older by the sun and a few sleepless nights. - 'Lena, if you can hear that, don't touch...', said my own tired whisper, and broke off as if someone had cut the cable with scissors from the future. Oskar looked at me. I looked at the crack, which just made a minimal but very distinct movement, like a mouth before a word. The lantern blinked again, this time quickly, nervously, and for a moment I had the impression that I could see a handprint on the glass. Not ours. - Not touching what? - whispered Oskar, but he was only answered by a breeze from inside and a quiet, broken sound, as if someone on that side was unwrapping the bubble wrap of a really important idea.