Marek returned to Brzeziny when the August evenings smelled of river metal and wet brick. Above the town stood the old water tower, closed for years after a strange accident. At night, a quiet thirteenth bell could be heard from it, as if someone had confused the time. His aunt Adela, the missing librarian, had left him a notebook full of maps and warnings. On the first page she had written only: "If you hear thirteen, don't look at the clock". Marek didn't like riddles, but he had no other farewell. Flicking through the notebook, he discovered a plan of the city hand-drawn and then mirror-image reversed. In the centre was a narrow street that no one remembered, ending in an arrow towards the river. Between the lines someone had drawn moths with crumbled wings, always in three places: the archive, the quay, the tower. Under one moth, my aunt had added in small writing: "Don't ask, listen". The words sounded like a joke, but they closed his throat; someone had chosen him. The archive smelled of dust, ink and mice, and the clock above the entrance had been silent for years. Mr Godlewski lifted his gaze from the book and squinted, as if recognising a stranger. "Are you looking for the tower? It's not for the curious." - he said, putting down the stamp. "I'm looking for answers." - replied Marek, showing the notebook and holding his cap nervously. The older man was silent for a moment, then pointed down a narrow corridor between shelves. "Shelf number thirteen does not exist; if you find it, give me the key." In the narrow warehouse, the shelves hummed with paper, as if something was moving between the pages. Marek counted twelve numbers and then another, painted grey. Inside waited a tin can and a wing-shaped key. Over the river, the wind carried the smell of rust and algae, mixing it with the coolness of the slippery boulders. The stones of the jetty were laid out as if in a sketch, with a rusty drain grating stuck in the middle. Marek slid a winged key into the cracked hole; something deep inside startled, as if a blind mechanism yawned. A thirteenth bell rang from the tower, although the watch only showed eleven o'clock. "Marek!" - whispered the air, or the water, or someone standing just behind it. A narrow panel in the wall next to the grille sprang open, revealing a dark corridor. The corridor smelled of dampness and old binding glue that bit into the tongue. The walls were scratched with chalk, names and a date repeated like an echo: 1899. The staircase climbed gently upwards to the inside of a tower full of wheels, ropes and mirrors catching the light of the river. On a chair stood a small tape recorder, still warm, though no one had touched it. "If you can hear it, you already know." - Aunt Adela's voice rang out, uncertain and firm. The gears moved without warning, the mirrors flicked, and a shadow moved behind one of them. Someone, unseen, reached out a hand to the main lever.