On the Monday after the rain, the corridors were so slippery that even the light reflected off the tiles like funfair mirrors. The school smelled of chalk, wet jackets and something else - as if there was a hushed whisper hanging in the walls. The janitor, Ms Sophie, slipped me a bucket and rubber gloves, pointed to a door with a crooked 'Lose Storage' card, and then disappeared around the corner, leaving the echo of her footsteps like two dots finishing a sentence. "An hour's work and home." - I promised myself, pushing the heavy door with my hip. It was cooler inside. On the metal shelves lay in disarray umbrellas, baseball caps, individual shoes, a few backpacks, a pile of uncollected drawings, crumpled notes and things no one dared throw away, because maybe someone would come back after all. The neon sign above the sink buzzed stubbornly, like a fly locked in a lamp. As I pushed back the cardboard box that said "NO PARAGON", something rustled. I froze with my broom raised like a spear. For a second, all I heard was rain tapping on the windowsill. And then - a voice, light, thin and offended: "Hey. Don't trample me, please. I have a pattern." I looked under my shoe. There was a peplum scarf lying on the floor. I think I was the only one who thought the tip moved like a tongue. I picked it up carefully and put it back on the shelf. I felt stupid. "Pattern is not everything yet. The arrangement of the weave counts too, gold." - whispered someone else, lower, metallic. This was already too much. I straightened up abruptly. A hanger with a bent hook flashed in the semi-darkness. It swung slightly and its spring rasped quietly. "Hello?" - I said aloud, because, after all, no normal person talks to a wardrobe. - "Who's here..." "Shh, listen, because it's about to go off and it's going to get worse." - I was interrupted by a voice from behind the boxes. Something crawled out from under a pile of sleeping bags. It was a torch. Scratched, with a frosted glass and duct tape instead of a battery flap. It blinked sparingly, as if it was burning its last spark. - "They call me Spark. No battery, but with experience." The broom fell on my shoulder. I sat down on the crate so my voice would stop trembling. "Either I'm crazy or... what?" "Or someone can finally hear us," replied Scarf, now clearly. - "It's the buzzing of the lamp. You tune in to the right frequency when you're tired. Congratulations, Lena. Your name is Lena, isn't it?" I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I didn't ask how they knew. The neon sign was indeed buzzing steadily, and somewhere above it an old school clock had moved its hand, skipping with a dry click to 6:18pm. "We don't have time," rang out another hoarse whisper from a crumpled umbrella with a wooden handle. It was missing two ribs and something told me it remembered more rains than I remembered films. - "For a week an usher comes in, cleans up, puts away. Since the radio station has gone silent, things are happening that I don't understand. Someone goes silent permanently. First it was the Old Bell at the gym, then it was the Cord from the blinds, and today it's Bernard." "Bernard?" - I repeated. "The clock on the first floor, the one with the cracked dial. He counted the time for us, but most of all... he listened. He was like a conductor. Today he stopped at 12:07 and didn't want to say anything anymore." "And me... me like what?" - I asked, although inside I felt a strange prick of curiosity, like opening an unknown file. - "I'm just a girl with a broomstick." "You have ears," Spark said. - "And you can set them. We need someone to open Cupboard Zero for us." The word until it danced between the shelves as if it were heavier than air and wrapped around someone's ankles. I glanced at the umbrella. Its bars trembled. "Cupboard Zero?" - I repeated uncertainly. - "There isn't one on the school plan." "That's the point." - muttered an old key ring with a rubber fox on it. It dangled from a nail underneath a 'KEYS NOT WRITTEN' sign. - "It's not on any plan, because the plan is written by people. And it's a locker for us. Our break, our wave. When something went wrong in Radio Broadcasting, the door closed. We were left without a rhythm. Bernard tried to hold out, but without that locker... well. Would you do it for us?" Before I could answer, a distant, absent sound came from the corridor - as if someone was shaking a bicycle chain. I glanced at the clock. It was now pointing to 18:19. "Where is it?" - I asked, standing up. The broom suddenly seemed absurd to me. I took Spark and the key ring instead. The scarf slung itself around my neck like a snake, and the umbrella curled lamely and rested against my shoulder. "The basement next to the Radio Room, behind the poster about last year's local government elections." - said the fob. - "The Driver's Licence team used to hang there next door. All that's left is a pin." We walked along a corridor that extended a few unplanned metres after hours. My silhouette in a navy blue jacket was reflected in the display cabinets, and above it a row of gold cups sent indifferent flashes to me. The door to the Radio Room was closed, but next to it, in the wall, a faded poster actually hung: smiling faces of candidates, slogans about being 'the voice of the students' and corners of paper frayed like leaves. "Here," Spark murmured faintly. - "Look at the shadow. Can you see it? Someone's mudded up badly. Zero's cupboard was quietly built in, but not quite." I knelt down. Indeed, the skirting board had a crack, and the smoothness near the edge of the poster was arranged in a cutter that was invisible at first glance. With my fingernail I levered the corner of the paper. It came off without resistance, as if it was just waiting. Underneath the poster there was a sort of gap - too narrow to insert my hand, but clear. "And the key?" - I asked, looking at the key ring. "I've got it, but I can't do it myself," the fox moved its rubbery muzzle. - "It's too heavy on me. It's lying behind the slat. You have to feel it." I reached out, feeling a shiver from the cold. Dust rustled under my fingernails. Finally, I came across the metal. I pulled out a flat key with a rusty handle on which someone had long ago painted a zero with a marker. It darkened, as if it didn't like the light. "Quick," urged the umbrella. - "We're getting in at a time when the echoes are less likely to return. This is our chance." I slipped the key into an almost invisible gap. The scarf tightened around my neck, inadvertently, from the sensation. A spark strained out the remnants of the glow and for a moment I saw the outlines of the doorway in the wall, like an image appearing on film. Something inside vibrated. The lock moved with a dry, impossibly loud click. And then we all heard it at the same time: from the other side, very clearly, a knock sounded three times, steady, sure, as if someone knew we were coming at last. "Lena," a new, very calm voice called out. He sounded neither like a child nor an adult. More like a teacher asking a question he already knows the answer to anyway. - "Don't open it if you're in a hurry." The spark had died down to almost nothing. The fob stopped digressing. The umbrella straightened, like a soldier. The scarf slid off my shoulder as if it wanted to go lower, under the door. Somewhere outside the window, the dripping rain changed its rhythm, and the neon sign in the warehouse of doom, far away, dipped a carefree new note. And I held the key in my hand, felt the metal tremble under my fingers, and knew that I would either turn away now, instantly, pretending it was none of my business, or I would turn it all the way and make something that had been waiting for years take air