Maja had long disliked bells, notifications and the nervous bustle of corridors. So she took an apprenticeship in the library, an escape into order, peace and ink. On that rainy evening, she went down to a storeroom closed to regular readers in the back room. She was there to sort through the drawers of an old card catalogue after the lending library had been refurbished and check the labels. The fluorescent lamps hissed and the corridor smelled of dust, glue and switched-off electricity. As Maja slid the first drawer open, the desk lamp grunted like a cold teacher. "Right side up, dear, books like to go back in their places too, always." Maja looked round abruptly, but all that stood in the empty reading room was furniture and silence. "Don't shoot your eyes out, Maja," yawned the stapler, "we all talk here when Rules and Regulations allow." The typewriter clattered and tapped out on its own: "Shh, not until the front door is closed." "The Rules of Silence protect you and me, but today a hole has burst in it." The catalogue breathed like a bellows, and one row showed an empty, unnaturally cool space. "The Master Password card is gone," hissed the phishers, "without it things will start to fall out of memory." The globe covered in plastic turned slowly until he stopped Africa with his finger and looked up. "It was taken last night," the stamp added, "someone switched the time on our date." Maja felt fear, but curiosity was more alive, like a fire under a steel kettle. "What should I do?" she asked quietly, though the echo in the warehouse liked to make noise. "Open the passage behind the atlases," said the lamp, "only a man will say the right word without error." "But remember," the keys buzzed, "the catalogue will try to name you to put you on the shelf." The stamp pressed against her palm; her skin baked, and the mirror in the window flashed letters. "AJAM" was imprinted on the skin, which, reflected in the glass, formed obediently into "MAJA". The catalogue cabinet slid out the right drawer on its own and the smell of ink became heavy. The black card began to scribble, first with a line, then with a name, barely visible as mist. "Don't look," hissed the stapler, but the ladder moved of its own accord towards the atlas bookcase. As Maja touched the cool wooden frame, the wall moved an inch away and night blew in. Out of the darkness came a word she had not spoken: her name, dragged like an old bell. Letters lit up on the floor like hollyhock worms, arranging an arrow to the interior. The dial phone, unconnected to anything, rang in a single, insistent, almost human tone. "If you come in, time can reverse the letter, not just your name," the machine warned. Maja lifted the receiver, and on the other end something took a long, first breath.