Tola was cleaning out the basement of the school library after her volunteer lessons. In a cardboard box of atlases she found a heavy brass pocket watch. On the lid was a date engraved in strange, crumbly writing. 31 February does not exist, yet it stood there: 1911. The side of the box was wet, as if someone had held it in the snow. The watch growled quietly, as if it had a bee trapped inside. Next to the crown was a microscopic button with a drop symbol. Tola touched it with her fingernail, because she didn't dare push it harder. The air thickened and the light bulbs in the corridor blinked like eyes. "Hello?" she said, though she was alone, and very much so. A single drip came from behind the pipes, but the ceiling was quite dry. Then the floor shifted half a step to the left. The shadow of a chair appeared on the wall, which wasn't here. The watch clicked and opened a box with a small date window. Inside, the numbers blinked, changing like a blackboard at a railway station. They stopped at the year Tola had not yet studied. She heard a quiet conversation in a language she knew from textbooks. Someone was asking for water and was asked about the strange machinery. "If it works, it's only for a while," whispered someone's voice. Tola put her eye to the window, though her heart was pounding like a drum. Behind the glass, a campfire was flickering and an unfamiliar constellation hung above it. When she pressed the button again, a cold wind blew her breath away. The whole cellar bent like an accordion and a shadow began to break.