Nicholas was fifteen years old and remembered every timetable in the city. After school he would get on the eleven, the tram creaking like an old bicycle. He liked to feel the vibration of the tracks in his knees, as if the city really breathed. Dad was an electrician, so there was talk of wires and fuses in the house. That Monday, however, Nicolas noticed something different from the usual route. As the tram passed the stadium, the lights on the platform blinked to the exact rhythm of his breathing. He took out his headphones, as the battery had long since died, but the music was still playing. Not in his ears, but rather somewhere in the cables, under the skin of the carriage. He shook his head, and the automatic ticket punch beeped, although no one touched it. 'Strange,' he thought, putting his hand on the railing and holding his breath for a moment. The metal was cool, yet something hummed quietly and answered. It was as if the electricity was speaking to him in simple notes and a short whisper. The next day he told Lena, who didn't believe in cable ghosts, about it. "Maybe you have magnetic fingers," she snorted, but her eyes were wide open. They checked it out at the school's drinks machine, during film circle time. Nikolai sighed deeply and counted to three, touching the case gently. The light changed colour, "SERVICE MODE" flashed on the screen, and then everything went back to normal. "See, it was you!" - hissed Lena, pushing her hand away from the button. Nikolai felt a quiet electric rain buzz through his fingers. A brief blackout had passed over Wrzeszcz in the evening, the streets dimmed as if after a blink. The eleven stood between stops, people muttering and checking their phones nervously. Only around Nikolai did a narrow rim of light shine, like a pocket of summer. In the cables something was pounding out a rhythm, simple, insistent, made up of pauses and crackles. He realised it was a message and peered into the carriage window: "Come to Gate Number Two. North. Alone." His eyelids itched with fear, but his curiosity was strangely louder. The night was crisp as he and Lena stood at the yard gate. "Sam? Forget it." - Lena said, slipping the torch into her jacket pocket. The padlock clicked, though no one had a key, as if the metal recognised their footsteps. Inside, it smelled of grease and old steam, and an even, deep murmur came from the dark boiler room. Archaic gauges shone on the wall, letters formed the name 'MIKOLAJ'. A speaker rustled in the gloom and whispered: "You are late." Then something huge moved in the light and began to emerge from the shadows.