Klara, a student of historic preservation, took over holiday duty at Mrs Berta's antique shop on Zegarowa. The shop stood at the end of Zegarowa, narrow as an accordion and overflowing to the brim. The smell of wax and old ink wafted between the globes, china and letter trays. Mrs Berta said that at night you just had to close the grating and not listen to the street. Klara pretended to understand, although night always seemed to her the most talkative. As the town hall clock chimed thirteen, the lamp above the counter flicked on and the music of the refrigerator fell silent. In the silence, something crunched in the drawers, as if the wood was slowly stretching its fingers. "At last," sighed the tin sugar bowl, dropping its cap of crystal dust with the angular dignity of today. "What time at sea?" asked the map from a bay whose shores changed every dawn. "Melancholy point," countered a pocket mirror in which no one looked out. Clare opened the inventory book and came upon an item, thick and circled in red. "Closet of the Silent Breeze, locked since 1901, key chooses keeper". The wardrobe stood in the darkest corner, dressed in cracked varnish and a seaweed smell. From the depths of the vitrines floated a soft husky giggle and a trembling, very quiet whisper. The brass key, hitherto heavy as a remorse, warmed alone in his apron pocket. "Do not open without a word of protection," squeaked the umbrella, which remembered the downpours of a century ago. "The word has already come," laughed the inkwell, sloshing black like a midnight cat. The light flicked on again, the neon sign that read "Buy Memories" grunted and fell silent all at once. Everything seemed to draw in air: the plates, the photos, even the reeds from the frame on the wall. A chill blew from inside the wardrobe, smelling of salt, steamer smoke and the soft fur of an unknown dog. Clare put her hand on the key and heard a quiet, metallic purr just beneath her fingers. The book turned the pages on its own and stopped at a page where someone had written her name in ink that had not yet dried. The floor tilted slightly, like the deck as a ship changes course to the north. "Hurry," the chairs squeaked, "because the sea won't wait much longer for you." Something knocked from the other side of the door, three times, politely, like a corridor neighbour. The key twitched, slipped from his fingers and slid slowly into the lock by itself. And then, from inside, someone whispered her forgotten, homely childhood nickname. The lock clicked with the first tooth and the shop itself turned the signboard to the "Closed" side. The compass on the shelf pointed straight at the cupboard door, though it stood sideways. The town hall clock fell silent after half a beat, as if someone was holding a pendulum to it. "Ready?" an invisible person asked, and the knob twitched a second time, harder than before.