The watchmaker's shop on Józefa Street smelled of grease, dust and tea after Grandpa Tadeusz. It had been three weeks since the funeral, and Iga still spoke to him in whispers, as if he had only gone out to the bakery. In the lowest drawer she found a false bottom, and beneath it a brass cylinder the size of a finger, with a fine knurled edge. Next to it lay a thin checkered notebook, written in even handwriting: instructions, drawings, and on the cover the title 'Skoknik T-37'. The first page had a sentence that stopped her breathing: "Passing at thirteen when the bugle falls silent". At night, when Casimir was silent, Iga took apart an old marine chronometer on the countertop. The cylinder fit into a hidden socket like a key in a secret padlock. The gears clattered, the seconds hand trembled and a narrow ring of dates on the dial glowed. Iga turned the crown one tooth and heard the distant ringing of a tram that hadn't travelled down this street for years. The skin on the nape of her neck turned ruddy as a shadow moved in the corner of the shelf, though the air stood still. The notebook warned: "Rehearsals at night create echoes. Real jumping only at midday." She closed the case, and the echoing chime looked long for an exit between the clocks. The next day, just before thirteen o'clock, she locked the door with a bolt and turned the sign to 'Closed'. From the street came the bustle of tourists, the smell of bagels and the dust from the renovation of the building vis-à-vis. Iga put the chronometer down on the green felt mat and opened it to the date-drawing page. The month pointer trembled at October and the ring of days waited to be selected. She looked at the photograph of her teenage grandfather, in a thin coat, with the smile of someone who believes in every tomorrow. "The eighteenth of October, one thousand nine hundred and thirty-seven," she said quietly. Her fingers trembled slightly, but the movement was sure. The Town Hall clock began its bugle call. The last note cracked as usual, and for a split second everything faded in the shop, as if the colour had given way to the contours. The brass turned warm, the chronometer glass fogged up from the inside, and dust particles hovered in the light like a swarm of micro-falling stars. "If you go in, don't keep your eyes on the mirror," she recalled from her notebook. Someone knocked from inside the old safe, twice, in an even rhythm. The bell above the door chimed, though the bolts did not budge. The thirteenth sound, which should not have been there at midday, spread through the glass like a wave on the Vistula. The doorknob beneath Iga's fingers twitched of its own accord, and a chill that smelled of coal, ink and fresh bread wafted from the threshold. Behind the glass of the exhibition, the street rearranged itself as if someone had turned the city plan a quarter turn. The coat of a man in a hat cut across the frame and his shadow matched the marks on the old photograph. "Iga," said a voice with a forlorn softness she hadn't heard since childhood. The second hand jumped to zero, and the lace was moved by an invisible hand