Between Mr Roman's vegetable shop and the photocopying point, in a place that was usually just a shadow of a wall, a signboard appeared. The metal letters, slightly tarnished, formed into: "Jonah Clockmaker". Lena stopped with her bag over her shoulder and brushed away a strand of hair stuck to her forehead. A string of red yarn clung to the doorbell - it had to be pulled, and the sound sounded as if someone was slowly sifting pins inside. The workshop smelled of tea with cloves, old leather and metal polish. On the shelves stood clocks: pendulum clocks with carved birds, alarm clocks in colours that no one makes any more, and a silent wall clock, which instead of chiming full, blinked a tiny diode as if thinking. Behind the counter - a man in a grey jumper, with a single magnifying glass hanging by a thread. As Lena approached, he raised his gaze as if he was expecting her. - 'Good morning,' she said, taking a watch with a thin leather strap out of her pocket. - 'It's from my grandmother. It was lying in a box at the bottom of the cupboard. I don't think it works. Jonah accepted the watch gently. He ran his finger over the glass and over the smooth lid. On the back was something engraved: "Do not reverse". The letters were microscopic but clear, as if someone had incised them while holding their breath. - Beautiful," he muttered. - Of those who prefer to hear that someone needs them. Sometimes all it takes is for the nature of things to hear one 'you are', and they're back to themselves. He didn't ask to leave details. He didn't write out a receipt. He leaned over, turned the crown half a turn and set the hands. The watch responded with a quiet, deep ticking, as if it had drawn in air after a long nap. Jonah handed it to Lena across the counter. - No charge,' he said. - Just wear it. I... don't fiddle with it at thirteen. - At thirteen? - she snorted. - That's a very specific hour. - Not everything has to be understood at once,' he smiled briefly. - Let it settle in. "Madam." Lena always laughed inside when adults suddenly saw her as an adult. She pressed the watch onto her wrist. It was cool and heavier than it looked. She walked out of the studio, and the bell sounded for a moment more like scattering drops. On the estate, noon spread out like a blanket: kids were bouncing a ball on the field between blocks, someone was hanging laundry, a tram in the far street rang like a metal spoon hitting the rim of a glass. The air had the taste of yeast with icing sugar - Mr Roman had put out a basket of warm buns on an orange crate. Lena passed the shop window of a vegetable shop, where the neon sign "OPEN" blinked uncertainly, like a button unsure if it wanted to be sewn on. She stopped at the "Parkowa" bus stop shelter. She placed her backpack on the bench. The timetable display just scrolled "Bus 125 - 13:17", "136 - 13:20". The sun was reflected in the filed corner of the glass. Lena glanced at her watch: 13:11 The phone vibrated. "Will you be there for thirteen-thirty? - Cuba." She texted: "Cool. I'll pick something up soon. I'm at Park Street." "Finally stop being late XD. And seriously, show me that watch. Sounds like the start of trouble," he wrote back. "What problems?" He didn't have time to write because Lena's fingers had already found the crown. With strange caution, she pulled it upwards. Click. She turned it minimally to catch up with the time on her phone. 13:12. The minute hand twitched and stood just in front of the thick index, like a runner on the starting block. The estate buzzed as it always did, and yet... something was changing, as if someone had turned the knob on the volume of the world. The sound of shopping trolley wheels moved away into softness. A leaf flew between the branches in the flower bed and hovered at Lena's eye level, unhurriedly, as if waiting. The water dripping from the vegetable awning hung in two clear drops - one larger, one smaller, connected by a thin neck that refused to burst. Lena leaned closer. Her own breathing sounded much louder. In her ear the headphones, which she didn't even have on, played a sort of quiet crackle, as if someone had switched the frequency. The phone whirred with a delay, as if it had to push a notification through the muck. "Alla? - Cuba." She glanced at the schedule. The second line, which hadn't been there before, had just slid in between the others, not causing any shift, just making room for them. "Line 0 - 13:13 - today only." The font was the same, but shone cooler, like a fridge light when you get up at night for water. - After all, no zero runs here," she muttered under her breath. The watch tinkled with her, as if nodding, and suddenly became warm. There was a gentle warmth spreading from underneath where it touched the skin, not unpleasant at all, just the kind of warmth that makes you remember that you have a wrist. 13:12 was creeping into 13:13. The minute hand snagged on the index, jumped to the point where it should have been, and at the same instant, all the clocks of the world around him - those in Mr Roman's kitchen, those flashing on microwaves, those on runners' smartwatches - seemed to tune in for half a beat of breath to one particular tick. Like a chorus rehearsed to perfection. "Lena?" - the phone flashed again. It read: "Are you? What's with the watch? I seriously have a bad feeling about this." Instead of writing back, Lena raised her head. A vehicle pulled to a stop, without a single sound. There was no engine, no tyre noise, not even the customary 'pssst' of the door opening. It simply appeared, as if it had slipped out of a side street that had never been there. He was brighter than everything around him, as if he was shining with the reflected light of noon from yesterday. On the display, where the number usually is, a "0" pulsed. Underneath: "13:13". And next to it, like a marker note over the cover of a notebook: "today only". Lena involuntarily took half a step backwards, feeling the strap of the watch tighten on her wrist. The unscrewed crown snagged on the thread of her sweatshirt. For a second she had the sensation of something knocking on the glass - once, softly. The time around her flickered slightly again: the cyclist on the path opposite was moving so slowly that every turn of the spokes was visible. On the glass of a bus shelter advertisement, a girl raised her eyes in a run. She was looking straight at Lena, although she was, after all, only a photograph. - Don't move! - someone shouted. The voice came from the other side of the street, stretched, as if passing through rubber. Cuba was standing on the kerb in an orange jacket, waving his arms. - Lena! - he repeated, and his syllable broke into two, as if the world had forgotten where to put the accent. The watch trembled once more. Lena looked at the lid: "Don't go back." The letters seemed a little darker, as if made of wet ink. She swallowed her saliva. In the middle of her hand, the free one, the blood pulsed in the same rhythm as the hands - tick, tick, tick. The vehicle stopped perfectly flush with the yellow line. The door slid open silently, letting out a chill that was not cold at all. There was no one in the first step. Instead, somewhere from the depths, indistinctly, another sound rang out - like a conversation that could be heard through the wall. One word she caught for sure. Her own name. - Lena. And then something flashed in the display above the door for a second that wasn't there: direction. But before she had time to read it, the world vibrated back, as if someone had put their hand on the speaker and moved it back a millimetre. The door remained open, just enough to accommodate a human step.