The autumn rain was patting against the high windows as Lena finished her duty in the library. Three boxes had been brought from the donations department by the late clockmaker, Mr Prozner from the Market Square. The papers smelled of dust and oil, and a heavy brass key lay at the bottom. Through the glass you could see the tower with the stopped clock, silent for years now. Lena rubbed the key with her sleeve, feeling a chill on her skin, as if the metal remembered an old wind. An envelope in one of the boxes bore a note: For the person who is still listening. Inside rested a card with a cursive sketch of the tower and a sentence: If you are reading this, the clock is already silent. Lena smiled briefly, as the clock had been silent ever since her memory, as if it were a password to a game. A narrow notebook with names and a symbol resembling a stylised ear drawn next to a piece of paper was stuck next to several entries. A security guard, Mr Mark, looked in from the corridor, correcting his cap and glancing at the watch above the door. "We close in half an hour, Ms Leno," he said. "I know, just a little longer." The notes led like a thread through the catalogues to the Fine Mechanics shelf, row four, seat seven. Between the textbooks stood a flat box with no lock, just a brass slot covered in scratches. The key went in smoothly and turned with a soft click, as if it had just been waiting for it for many winters. Inside lay a narrow strip of paper, smelling of oil, written with a series of dots and dashes, like Morse alphabet. There was also a sheet of paper at the bottom with a plan of the reading room and a small red cross near the edge of the window. The reading room was deserted, the lamps buzzed by the ceilings and the donor portraits were silent as usual, looking to the side. Lena slid her hands under the edge of the carpet and lifted it, revealing a metal grille with four screws. The notches were shaped like suns, identical to the end of her brass key, like in a puzzle. She unscrewed them one by one, feeling a chill blow from the grille that didn't smell like a cellar, but like rain and oil. Mr Mark walked past the door and grunted, and she raked the carpet as if nothing had happened, looking at her notes. "One hour." "I'm on my way out." As his footsteps fell silent on the stairs, Lena pushed back the grate and leaned against the dark opening. There was a whispering sound from below, akin to turning pages, though there were no books, only darkness. The phone, set to torch, illuminated the narrow rungs of the ladder, bitten into the brick, damp after the rain. She shuddered, for the tower outside had just killed one time, though it had been silent for years, as if someone had woken it. A vibration in her hand snapped her out of her reverie; an unknown number sent a short text: Don't go down alone. Before she had time to write back, the screen flashed and a metallic wheel clicked from the depths, as if someone had moved an invisible mechanism. Lena put her foot on the first rung when a second message arrived, without a signature: I'm already waiting.