Lena was fourteen years old and smelled the dust of the library after the rain. Every afternoon she sorted through boxes of donations in the cool basement of the city branch. On this day she found a sketchbook with a black cover, smooth and slightly warm. There was no title on the spine, just the outline of a star like thumbprints. Lena touched the design and felt a tingling sensation, as if the pages were breathing under her skin. Outside the window, a tram growled and the gutters clattered as if counting down the seconds. She opened the sketchbook; the pages were blank, but dots shimmered on the paper. They were arranged in a grid of the sky, like a map that was missing a few stars. Lena blew carefully and the missing dots lit up with a pale silver light. A simple pencil left a line that trembled, floated and twirled like a thread. She drew a window; a cool, shimmering rectangle appeared on the basement wall. From inside the window she could smell ice and something long unspoken. The door creaked open; Patrick peeked in, distributing posters about a night of reading under the cloud. He froze, seeing Lena put her hand into the glowing outline as if it were water. - Is this safe? - He asked, but his eyes were more hungry than wary. Lena sketched a paper boat; it splashed into the sink as a tiny silver thing. It swam against the current of the water, and hovered, as if oblivious to gravity. - 'If it works, we can find everything that ever disappeared,' he whispered. - 'It's not a sketchbook,' said Patrick, lowering his voice, 'it's a key. Lena remembered the tale of the lost Hall of Silence, walled off years ago. She drew the doorway that everyone longed for, though no one had really seen it. The outline shimmered and the bookcases moved a millimetre away, as if taking a whispered inhale. Outside the window, light spilled in, slow and silent, full of bird-like specks. From deep within came a whisper that knew their names, and something took a step forward. The floor trembled ever so slightly as the dust danced, arranging itself in rings. Lena pressed the sketchbook to her chest and felt the rhythm like an alien heart. Patrick took the torch from his phone, but the light refused to cross the threshold. Instead it twisted, curled in spirals, like a moth trapped in amber. Then both names sounded simultaneously, clear, close, and something swung the door open. A gloved hand of stardust flashed past the threshold and disappeared.