Wrzosowice smelled of the sea and baked apples, and its market square was as round as the face of a clock. Above the roofs of the townhouses rose the North Tower, built of dark bricks that glistened like fish scales in the rain. Everyone knew it. Everyone had heard its bells. And everyone knew that the metal door at its base had not been opened for years. Jagna lived two streets away, in a house with a garden full of lavender and copper pinwheels. She liked to collect things that others avoided with their eyes: feathers pressed into the gutter, buttons, lumps of glass smoothed by the waves. She was eleven years old, with her aunt's greyed-out sweatshirt and an ear that picked up sounds quieter than the whisper of a watch. It was through this that she heard something that no one else heard, before what everyone else later remembered even began. That day, just after noon, the wind suddenly stopped like a stopped pendulum. The pigeons in the marketplace froze with their wings outstretched. And then the North Tower struck one, two, three.... twelve. And again. The thirteenth sound moved over the town, as if someone had run a finger over the edge of a crystal bowl. The teacher at Jagna's school broke off in mid-sentence. The watch on his wrist twitched and began to spin the hands in the opposite direction, after which everything went on as normal again, as if nothing had happened. After lessons, Jagna found a small box wrapped in paper with thin stripes on her porch. There was no address or stamp on it, just a single line drawn in pencil, like a pointer directing someone further away. Inside lay a compass. Not the usual kind, smooth and polite, but heavy and old, with a scratched glass. Instead of north, it had the letter N imprinted on it like on maps, and the second hand was shaped like a silver feather. When Jagna touched the metal case, the compass buzzed quietly like an insect behind glass. At the bottom of the box she found a piece of paper, which at first she took for a folded corner. It was warm, as if someone had held it in their hand for a while. One line was written on it, in cursive but sure handwriting: before the clock can learn to run, someone must dare to stand. Jagna turned the compass over. The arrow stubbornly showed a direction that led straight towards the market. Towards the Tower. Before she had time to properly wonder, she heard the thud of tennis shoes behind the fence and a giggle she knew by heart. - Jagna! - Olek jumped over two boards at once and tumbled into the garden like a train that's got the wrong station. He was twelve years old, with clever hands that kept unscrewing and reassembling things, and a rucksack stuffed with screws, a torch and something that looked suspiciously like a piece of aerial from an old radio. - Did you hear that? The thirteenth hit! - He was red with emotion. - In Mr Szczurek's studio all the clocks started ticking like mad, and one one stopped at twelve, even though I put a new spring in it. Jagna lifted the compass. The arrow trembled and did not think to change direction. - 'I've found something. And it's no ordinary something - she said quietly and told Olek about the box, the note and the strange buzzing. Olek listened with his mouth open. - This is the plan! - He chuckled when she had finished. - We're going to the Tower. Now. Only... - he looked up at the sky, where the clouds hung like wrapped white scarves - maybe we should wait until evening. Fewer people, fewer questions. Evening in Wrzosowice was always soft and dark blue, like a blanket under which cats slip. When the lanterns were lit and the shop windows glowed warmly like heated ambers, Jagna and Olek set off for the market square. The North Tower looked, up close, like a huge steel needle stuck into the cobblestones. Its metal door had a star-shaped key, and above it hung a plaque with a faded inscription that no one read because they all knew it by heart: Entry forbidden. - It's just a word,' muttered Olek and put his ear to the door. - Do you hear? Jagna heard. A very quiet, too even sound, like the breathing of a sleeper trying to pretend to sleep harder than he really did. The compass buzzed again, the arrow twitched and pointed to the keystone. Jagna pressed the case against the star. It was akin to applying the shell from a nut to its other half. Something clicked, but not like a lock, more like a tin full of old coins. The door lifted a millimetre and swung open with a protracted sigh. Inside, it smelled of grease, rust and rain that once tore through the roof and seeped into the cracks. A winding staircase with slippery steps climbed upwards. Jagna grasped the compass with two fingers. It was warmer than a moment ago. Olek switched on the torch. In the light appeared numbers scrawled in chalk on the wall: X, XI, XII.... and then, higher up, a small note, as if hurriedly applied: 13. - Someone was here," whispered Olek. - And he was in a hurry. The higher up, the more it felt like the Tower was alive. Somewhere above, someone laughed at a draught; swifts nested in the cracks between the bricks and fell silent as they heard footsteps. Once a small feather slipped out from under a beam and landed on Jagni's shoulder. It was silver, like the pointer of her compass. The clock mechanism occupied the whole floor like a metal forest. The cogs were bigger than a bicycle wheel, and the shafts and springs looked strong enough to drive the carousel. In the middle stood a massive box with something clanking inside, and a thick rope leading up to the bells. Jagna bit her lip. The rope twitched slightly, although there was no wind. It was as if someone had been playing with it in the attic. Behind the mechanism, just below the clock face, hung a round plate of dark metal. It had no handle. In the middle, against a background of fawn dust, was imprinted a feather pattern. Beneath it was a shallow depression, exactly in the shape of a compass. - 'I think they drew us an instruction manual,' muttered Olek. - 'Only is it a clever idea? The compass in Jagna's hand was clearly ticking, although it didn't have the cogs that tick like that. Jagna lifted it and pressed it against the hollow. The metal was cool, but it felt warm on the inside, as if someone on the other side was also holding their hand on the same plate. At that moment, the Tower sighed. It was no mere dragging of the boards. The whole building lifted by a hair, like a sailing ship on a wave, and then fell. The gears clattered softly. The compass arrow, the one shaped like a feather, shook and pointed vertically upwards. Olek moved closer to Jagna so that their elbows touched, warm to warm. - 'If we're going to do it, do it now,' he said, more to himself than to her. There was a sound above them from which Jagna's skin stood up in goosebumps. One ringing of a bell, clear and round like a full stop at the end of a sentence. Then a second. And a third. When they had counted twelve, Jagna and Olek looked at each other. As many as two shields were reflected in their eyes: the big one, through which a pale blue glow was coming through, and the small one, which Jagna held in her hand. The tower took a breath. The air thickened, as on a hot day by the water. In this slowdown, Jagna noticed that the dust hung in place and the spider thread swirled as if suspended in amber. She moved the compass a little to the right. The metal plate vibrated. At first barely, lazily, by a hair. Then decisively, until there was a quiet clanking sound, like from a slider being pulled back. A chill gushed through the narrow crack, although it had just become stuffy in the Tower. From this crevice also flowed a blue glow, not the kind given by lanterns or the moon, but deeper, as from the bottom of a well. - Do you hear? - asked Olek, and Jagna was about to ask what, when she heard it. Footsteps. Very quiet, as if someone was walking barefoot. Not on wood and not on stone. Like on glass. This thing was moving just behind the slab. - 'Jagna,' said a voice. It was not loud, yet it sounded in her skull like an echo. She couldn't tell if it was the voice of a child or an adult. It could belong to someone she had known forever and to no one at the same time. The compass arrow started spinning like crazy. Olek reflexively put his hand on Jagna's palm, as if he was afraid the compass would jump out and roll somewhere between the cogs. The board moved back a centimetre. Then by two. The chill turned into a breeze that smelled of something that was unlike any familiar scent, yet familiar as a lullaby. Above their heads, where the bell hung, there was a quiet sound, as if someone had taken a breath before the next strike. Jagna drew in a breath, feeling the metallic taste on her tongue, and began to press the compass against the nest, when suddenly on the other side something snapped like ripped fabric, and a thin beam of blue light cut through the darkness of the mechanism like a needle just above their hands.