Zosia lived under the very roof of an old tenement. That evening the rain played on the gutters like spoons on pots. She looked in the attic cupboard for a red nature notebook. Instead she found a flat tea box full of coloured chalk. On the wall next to it someone had long ago drawn a door. It was tall, with a mangled handle and a tiny keyhole. Zosia blew on the dust until silver pollen flew. The chalk lines flashed and seemed to take a deep breath. Then the floor beneath her sighed quietly and the cupboard shook. - Who's there? - she whispered, though no one should answer. A brass key on a thin string fell out of the box. It didn't fit into any familiar cupboard, it was cool and heavy. Zosia looked at the drawn lock and felt a tingling sensation. The rain had quietened, as if waiting for her next move. Behind the wall something scratched, first lightly, then more clearly. - 'Knock, knock,' said a thin voice, very close to the chalk. The girl knelt down and touched the handle of the dash itself. The dash was harder than the wall and a little warm. The air smelled of wet apples and old paper. - It's just a picture,' she said, to give herself courage. Slowly she lifted the key until her hand began to tremble. The metal touched the chalk and a spark danced over her fingers. The lines of the door lit up like a moon in wellington boots. The lock pulled the key in, although Zosia had not yet inserted it. - Hey! - She hissed and reflexively withdrew her hand, scratching the plaster. The opening opened with a quiet click and a thin beam cut through the wall. Zosia heard her name said by someone who knew her. The beam swelled and the chalky handle began to move. Something on the other side pressed the door from the inside.