Christmas Eve came with snow and the sound of carols echoing off the tenements of Gdansk. Lena had finished volunteering at the fair, handed out the last dumplings and frozen tangerines. The house smelled of borscht, her grandfather's garage still stood quiet and closed. A package waited on the desk, sent back according to his wishes only today. On the lid she found the words engraved: For the one who sees the first star. Inside lay a glass star, old and light, with a copper core as if burnt thread. Beneath it was a rolled-up parchment, smelling of smoke and carpenter's glue. Grandfather wrote evenly: Give to the Light when the third bell speaks, and if you hesitate, the city will fall asleep. Lena parried a nervous laugh, but the star was warm, as if she remembered his hands. - 'Strange gift,' muttered Simon, a cousin who had come to clear the snow from their balcony. - 'The third bell is at Catherine's, at twenty-three fifty-nine, remember the carillon? Lena looked out of the window at the church, whose steeple drew a dark tine over the fair. The lights of the stalls trembled, the choir intoned Among the Silence of the Night, and the star brightened from a single chord. - Will you come with me before the bells begin to play? - he asked quietly. - 'Grandpa wasn't joking around for no reason, and you can see she's reacting. They went, passing icicles, wet cobbled walkways and a couple dancing by a cinnamon vending machine. At St Catherine's gate, someone had left a mark in the frost, resembling the sketch of a map and the mark of a carpenter's compass. The interior was semi-dark, with only a lamp squatting beside a picture of the saint, like a wary bird. As they ascended the stairs, the star trembled and the telephones lost range. The clock in the tower tinkled, as if warning the wood, bricks and air. On the platform in front of the bells rested pieces of wood shavings, identical to those from her grandfather's workshop. Lena knelt down, touched one, and a narrow trail of light dawned under the board, leading to a star-shaped iron nest. - 'It looks like a castle,' whispered Simon, retreating despite himself. - 'If it's a trap, it'll latch onto us like a wolf pit,' he added, looking at the darkness. Her heart answered with a beat that lost the beat of the clock. Above them, the bells sighed, preparing their breath before three strikes. Lena lifted a glass star and a silent owl flitted through the vault, marking the night with ash. The wind scale changed the sound of the tower, and the thin, familiar grandfather mark shone on the metal edge. The pointer jumped to fifty-nine, the floor trembled like a plank in the frost. - 'Now,' Simon said, but suddenly someone, invisible between the bells, grabbed Lena's wrist with a cold hand.