The rain was nibbling on the 'Second Chance Stuff Shop' sign, and the neon sign above the shop window blinked orange like a squinted eye. The arched window was fogged up from the inside so that passers-by could only see the pink spots of the lampshades and the hazy outlines of old umbrellas. Inside, it smelled of cinnamon, tea and dust that liked to sit on everything like a cat on its lap. Lena, the eleven-year-old owner of a suede-starred rucksack, was browsing through a basket of "miscellaneous non-obvious things". Her aunt Apolonia, who owned the shop, had a habit of grouping things not by what they were, but by how they behaved. So there was a corner of 'things that rustle', a shelf of 'things that pretend to know nothing', and a table of 'things that can listen'. The bell above the door sounded affectionately - the last customer had left, and my aunt slid the latch open. "Fifteen minute break for cocoa and toast," she announced, braiding her handkerchief with coloured dots. "Then the courier will arrive. He promised it would be today for sure. Lena, colonise the kettle while I find a clean cloth that doesn't take offence at hot mugs." Lena nodded, but her attention slipped to the 'things that can listen' shelf. There was a brass compass, round as a pancake, with tiny scratches on the lid. Its name was Needle and it had a quiet manner of turning when no one was looking. Next to the compass lay a fountain pen - Miss Ink - she liked to tap the cap when she was impatient, and on the edge of the shelf squatted a porcelain alarm clock called Mr Tik, whose hands could put even the most punctual hens to shame. As the curtains on the door moved and the rain hit the glass harder, Lena heard something she already knew well - the murmur of conversation. When the shop was closed, things got bolder. They didn't talk directly to the customers (it's not right, Aunt Apolonia said, because people's eyes get as big as a nickel), but to Lena they did. Maybe because she was listening. "Sunshine on the left!" hissed Mr Tik, waving the minute hand like a finger. "Close the window because my spring squeaks." "What was I talking about? Oh yes, the letters. Letters like shadow," whispered Miss Ink so that blue pearled on her body. "Don't put me under the lamp because I blush and then make blobs." A theatrical whisper could be heard from the umbrellas in the corner: "We'll ask for some space. When a person gets wet, they at least spread out, but us? We don't spread out in the corner one bit." This was spoken by Mr Pea, the umbrella with the green dots, firm and somewhat melodramatic. Lena smiled from ear to ear. "Mr Pea, go ahead," she moved the umbrella so that it had a view of the shop window. "Miss Atramento, I'll change you to a more semi-shaded spot. Mr Tik, I'm closing the window now." Aunt Apolonia returned from the kitchen with two mugs. "One for you, the other for that compass, because it looks dried out," she winked. Then a knock sounded from the back room - three quick knocks and a protracted clatter. "Oho, a courier. Lena, can you help me?" A man in a cloak stood on the doorstep, dripping like a stream from a gutter. On the cart he had a package wrapped in thick canvas, bigger than a drawer, smaller than a piano, but heavy, as if two hippos were sitting inside and playing cards. The canvas bore a tag: 'For Second Chance Stuff Shop. Do not turn. Do not put upside down. Do not tease." "Not to tease?" repeated Aunt Apolonia, raising her eyebrows so high they almost touched the handkerchief. "Interesting." The courier signed the papers, nodded and disappeared in a splash of rain. Together, Aunty and Lena uncovered the package. Hidden beneath the canvas was a wooden box with brass fittings, with a rusty padlock in the shape of a star. On the sides, someone had carved small marks - they looked like pawprints on fresh snow. "I don't see a return address," muttered her aunt, stroking the padlock as if it were a dotty cat. "Just this note." She found a small piece of paper stuck in a slot under the handle. On the card, in calligraphy so even that Miss Ink giggled with envy, stood: "Open when the pointer stops." "Tip?" Lena glanced at Mr Tik, who was moody with indignation. "I'm not afraid!" oburked the alarm clock. "At most, I'm overly cautious. It's called being sensible." "And the Needle?" whispered Miss Ink, glancing at the compass. The needle did indeed twitch, as if someone had lightly blown on it. Once it pointed north, after a moment it wobbled and... stood still. At a standstill. As if it had suddenly run out of courage and electricity at the same time. Aunt Apolonia looked at the wall clock. 'I have to jump over to Mrs Felicia's with a replacement lamp. I'll be a quarter of an hour. Don't touch the padlock. Don't test the standing hands. And don't get maneuvered into anything that starts with 'just for a second'." "Me? Never," smiled Lena so innocently that even Mr Pea stopped grunting theatrically. Aunty picked up her striped umbrella (not the dotted one, as Mr Pea grumbled about the rain) and disappeared out the door, the bell clanging as if to say goodbye. As twilight fell, there were more whispers. "It's her..." began someone from the spoon shelf, but he was shooed away by a silver spoon that didn't like gossip. "Uh," sighed the globe, spinning slowly, "I never liked brass ornaments. They're always up to something." "Don't be gruff," Lena said, putting her hands on the edge of the chest. The wood was smooth, cool and smelled like a summer cellar. "Hey," she turned in a half-hearted voice to the padlock. "Who are you?" The padlock didn't answer. But something inside the box moved so distinctly that Mr Tik froze with a ticking half-"you-" and all the umbrellas folded simultaneously, as if someone had said: "Attention!" "Did you hear that?" hissed Miss Ink, and a drop of ink slid uncertainly out from under the nib. "As if... someone was dragging." "Psst," Lena admonished them, although she herself had the kind of shiver on the back of her neck as if someone had drawn an ant route on her skin. She put her ear to the lid of the crate. There was a noise coming from inside - not rain, another one, as if the wind was swirling around a very small room and didn't know which way to go out. "This is no ordinary box," muttered Globus, leading all the continents towards the edge, as if making a gathering. "It has breath." The needle in the compass flicked and twitched again. Instead of north, it began to point... Lena squinted. The needle moved like a pointing finger - not at the map, not at the door, but straight at her. Then at the padlock. Then at her. And back to the padlock. "Is that... an instruction?" asked Lena in a whisper. "It's a... warning," snorted Mr Tik, regaining his voice. "I know it. It starts with 'check just for a moment' and ends... ends... well, it ends differently." The rain picked up and began to drum against the windowsill like the fingers of an impatient pianist. Across the street an advertisement flashed by, spilling a greenish light across the shelves, in which the padlock looked even more rusty, and yet... She blinked. Lena jumped back. "Did I...?" "I saw," confirmed Miss Ink, who had no eyelids but had an imagination. "It was a blink." "Of course it was a wink," added Mr Pea with exaggerated calm. "Padlocks are very expressive creatures." "Shh," hissed Lena. "Just a moment more. Let's listen." She put up her ear once more. This time, in addition to the noise, she heard three knocks. Gentle ones. Like a nail against wood. One, two, three. Then a pause. And again. One, two, three. Mr Tik began ticking so quietly that he could hardly be heard. The needle in the compass trembled. The globe solidified and stopped Africa in mid-turn. There was something in the shop that was not silence - more like anticipation. "If it's someone, maybe they need air," Lena whispered. Her fingers touched the padlock. The metal was as cool as the morning. At the back, in the back room, the cuckoo-clock didn't ku-ku-ku-ku-ku. It was as if it had also held its breath. "Leno," the compass called back quietly, for the first time that evening in a really voice. It had no timbre or sound - more like a thought hearing itself. "Be careful." The padlock vibrated under her fingers. Something inside the box moved visibly, as if shifting its weight. A light flashed on and off from the street outside, and a pram left by someone under the canopy made a quiet squeaking sound of wheels. "Okay," Lena said more to herself than to anyone else. "Let me... just take a peek." She pulled the padlock gently. This one twitched and moved back a millimetre, as if answering with a nod. Then, on her own, without help, she turned to the right. One. Two. Three. The mechanism in the centre of the box clicked, the wooden slat sighed, and a narrow, pale blue line of light, thin as a thread, showed along the edge. "Oh no," squealed Miss Ink, spilling a tiny blob of takeover. "Oh no, oh no, oh no." "On the count of three we all take a breath," cried Mr Tik. "Once..." A thread of light flared up, as if someone from within had brought a torch closer to the crack. The needle set stiffly and stopped trembling. The globe closed the mouth of the oceans. Lena felt her heart thudding in her chest like a hammer in a wooden toolbox. "Two..." continued Mr Tik, and his voice sounded like a whisper in the middle of a watch. From inside the box came a sound - not a clatter, not a rustling. A voice. A single word, as quiet as a breath, spoken quite clearly, just below the eye of the padlock: "Lena."