For the first time, Mira descended into the basement of the Central Station as a night archivist. The metal shelves, numbered with strips of yellow paint, stretched like streets in a city that has forgotten the morning. It smelled of grease, damp cardboard and tea that someone had once left in a closed cup. The fluorescent light above the desk buzzed draughty, as if trying to drown out other, quieter sounds. She hung her coat by the door, checked the admission list and began transcribing faded labels onto newer, legible cardboard boxes. Old time slings, she thought, touched here every day. She was moving an umbrella with a broken handle when she heard a slightly gruff grunt. - More careful, please. Lacquers count this as a character crack,' said the umbrella, feigning indifference. Mira froze, but her hands were doing their own thing, sorting through the receipts. - Who's talking? - She whispered. - I'm talking. And so is he, though he pretends not to - the enamel dotted cup trembled. - Don't put me on the edge. Other voices emerged from the boxes: a tired seatbelt, a sleepy alarm clock, a mirror uncertain of the truth. - Since what time have you ... have been talking? - Mira sat up to keep her knees from showing a tremor. - 'When the last train disappears and the clocks stop,' the mirror replied, catching the pale light of the lamp. At the end of the alley, under the D bookcase, stood a typewriter whose ribbon had apparently long since dried out. She tapped out three heavy words herself: DON'T LOOK FOR THE KEY.... the ribbon snapped into silence. In a glass jar beside her slept a minute hand from an old hall clock. It had a chipped tip and a bump mark. - 'Enough,' she hissed, 'time is running out faster in boxes. A green checked suitcase, pulled down with a cracked strap, shook. - 'Don't open me until you hear nine thumps,' she whispered, and the metal buckles rang like teeth. - What strokes? - Mira felt the fluorescent light dim by half a tone. - The hall clock beeps when it shouldn't. When it's done nine times, something will come back, or something will disappear,' the alarm clock muttered, stuttering at five. - Master of the Keys - grunted the umbrella. - He cleans us until we are silent. He collects silence like other stamps. The machine tapped out another word: RUN. The jar clattered against the tabletop as if objecting. Mira touched the glass. It was cold, like water at the bottom of a well. A soft step swept through the corridor, followed by the sound of keys rubbing against metal. The door upstairs groaned, though no one should be coming down again. - 'Turn off the light,' asked the mugger, not turning a pea at all. - 'No,' said Mira quietly. - 'I'll understand first. From the side of the hall the station clock struck once, unnaturally deafening, as if someone had tapped on a shoebox. The suitcase tightened its belt, the bookcases shrieked with whispers, and the knob from the door to the basement began to turn slowly.