On Saturday, just after moving in, Lena found a key hanging from a loft beam. It was old, brass, and seemed warm, as if it had just left someone. The attic smelled of dust, feathers and sour apples, like a frozen fragment of autumn. Dates were written on the beams in chalk, and cobwebs twitched like electrical nets. Hidden behind the creaking trunks was a narrow chest, closed with a padlock in the shape of an eye. When Lena touched the padlock, the air in the room became congested and silence fell. From below, someone called out, but the voice hovered as if it could not reach here. The first to speak was a metal measuring cup, curled up like a snail on a shelf. - 'Don't pull fate, child,' she croaked, 'measure first, then risk.' Next to her groaned the alarm clock, which had been silent for years, and blinked its only clue. - 'I've lost the ticking,' it said, 'someone twisted it, in the night, without warning.' The old umbrella tapped its handle on the floor, asking for the storm that was missing. Lena withdrew her hand as she suddenly realised that objects were not quiet here. The tape measure rustled, feeling the key: - He gives us a voice when you hold him close. A clattering gramophone demonstrated, speaking in a whisper as if something was eavesdropping on it. - Every night the Silence comes, thick as a quilt, and takes the voices from us. A map of the city slid off the wall and spread out like wings, catching the light. - 'One street disappeared yesterday,' she whispered, 'I can't remember where it led before. If you push aside the boxes, you will find a trace of the Silence, but you must go alone. Silence leaves cold spots where sound slides, like a skate on ice. At the end of the trail is said to be someone who doesn't like questions. Lena took a breath as she felt anxiety in her stomach, but also curiosity. The key from the beam was weighing down in her pocket, as if it wanted to decide for her. She closed her eyes and touched the padlock, which whimpered as if it had a hoarse sound. The alarm clock was stubbornly silent, but its spring trembled, counting down invisible seconds. A draught came from the stairwell, carrying the smell of rain, though the sky was clear. Then a whisper came from the depths of the trunk, strangely familiar: - Lena, don't be late. The floor groaned, the light flashed, and the map began to pulse, pointing to an unnamed street.