The rain tapped against the windows of the Linden Town Library as insistently as if it wanted to beat its own rhythm on the glass. Inside, there was a smell of dust, bookbinding glue and something warm and calm that had always hovered over the shelves full of stories. A clock with a bright blue dial ticked above the entrance; the hands skipped with a quiet click, as if the library had its own separate heart. Lena was eleven years old and had a pocket full of trinkets: forgotten buttons, a miniature compass, a pen spring that might one day be needed. Maks was a year older and could put something together from nothing that worked - although sometimes only for five minutes. They both liked coming here after lessons, especially since Mrs Gertruda, the elderly librarian with hair like a grey cloud and green-rimmed glasses, let them look in the back. - Only to the North Warehouse," she stipulated, handing them a bunch of keys. - And no experiments with oil lamps. You have to collect the books from the donations and bring them on the trolley. Basil will look after you. Basil, a brindle-haired tomcat with amber eyes, jumped down from the table and set off first, with the grace of a guide. It was cooler on the stairs downstairs; the stone steps still remembered the days when the library was the town hall. The light from the ceiling fluorescent tubes flickered, creating long shadows on the walls. Lena touched the cool handrail and whispered to Maks: - Can you feel it? Like there's ... heavier air. - Probably because of the rain. And by the dust,' snarled Maks, but he looked around curiously. - Or... By this. They stopped in front of a door with a sign saying 'Northern Warehouse'. The key creaked in the lock and Basil ducked inside, rubbing up against boxes marked GIFTS - NOT SORTED. In the corner stood a wooden bookcase, and on it was a long box wrapped in brown paper and tied with white string. On top of it someone had attached a note: "CARTOGRAPHY - CAUTION - FRAGILE". - Delicate? So perfect for you," joked Maks. - Let's see what these maps are. Lena, who approached delicate things with deliberation, reached for a bookbinding knife. She cut the string evenly and lifted the lid. Inside lay a large leather-bound volume. The cover was cracked like dried earth, and in the middle someone had embossed the title: 'Atlas of Cracked Roads'. Under her fingers, Lena felt tiny grains of gilding, not yet fully rubbed off. - Who cracks the road? - muttered Maks. - Strange. Next to the atlas, on a velvet strip, rested a metal tab in the shape of a thin frame. It was cool silver, and tiny steps were engraved on its edge, as if someone had drilled a microscopic staircase into it. Lena carefully lifted the volume. The spine hinges snapped as she opened the first page. There was an illegible signature and a few words written in a cursive pen on the facing page: "For Wanderers who can listen to maps". Below that, someone had added in pencil: "Don't retrace your steps before you see where they lead". - Listen to maps? - Maks snorted, but already had his nose over the paper. - Sounds like something you'd tell your parents when you get lost at camp. They turned page after page. Instead of the usual continents and oceans, this atlas depicted places whose names sounded like breath: "The Cliff of Time", "The Station Between", "The Back Shore". The lines of the roads were cracked, as if they were made of dried clay. In places, the cracks were joined by silvery threads drawn with other ink that glistened slightly under the light. - 'Look,' Lena said, stopping at a fold-out she couldn't take her eyes off. - This is our market. Indeed, the map depicted the square of their town. Even the lime tree at the steps of the library had been reproduced with a pen so precisely that you could see the cracked bark. In the middle of the square, here where the fish fountain stood, someone had drawn a door. An old-fashioned one, with an iron knocker in the shape of a hand. Above them circled tiny markers, resembling bird tracks. - Who draws a door in the middle of the square? - Maks leaned even closer. - Hey... can you see it? The ink used to make the knocker shimmered as if drops of light were streaming under the paper. Before she had time to think, Lena brushed the drawn knocker with the tip of her finger. The paper was cool. A chill ran through her skin up to her elbow, but it was not unpleasant. More like the first sip of water after a run. She shuddered, and Basil hissed and curled his tail under himself. - Don't touch! - ' hissed Maks, even though he himself was reaching out. - Or... touch again. Lena placed the bookmark in the margin and touched the knocker a second time. This time the lines near the handle twitched. As if the ink was fresh and felt like changing shape. The silver bookmark gently vibrated and a pale light ran along its edge, spilling out like milk in tea. - 'This is no ordinary bookmark,' Maks said in a whisper. - See. He slid the metal frame up so that it encompassed the drawing of the door. The silver edges made contact with the ink and.... they soaked in. Not like a wet sponge, more like a mirror that suddenly agrees to become water. The air thickened. The fluorescent light above their heads blinked faster, and footsteps sounded from somewhere upstairs. - Mrs Gertrude? - called out to Lena, but was only answered by an echo. The footsteps sounded as if someone was walking on the wooden floor of the reading room. Then they fell silent. Basil set his ears, but did not run out. He stayed by the atlas, looking towards the drawing as intently as a cat looks when it sees something that is invisible to humans. On the page among the inked streets, a speck moved - as tiny as a grain of poppy seed. Then a second one. Lena rested her cheek against the edge of the table. The pollen turned into a ripple of light that circled the contours of the marketplace, stopped at the door and ran on again. Maks pulled a magnifying glass from his pocket. - They're ... they're setting - he croaked as low as he could. - As if something had to be hit. Like a calibration. - Calibrate what? - Something we're about to do and regret,' he replied, but there was a glint in his eyes. Lena looked at the bookmark again. The silver frame was now slightly warm. On its edge, between the microscopic steps, the mark was more clearly visible: a small arrow and the letter L, as if someone had carved it with a fingernail. Next to it, someone had written in a narrow font: "Set in the right side". - The right side of what? - Lena turned the bookmark over and placed it so that the arrow pointed upwards on the map. At the same instant, the ink drawing of the market trembled, as if someone had shaken the table. The door in the drawing filled with a darker hue, as if a light had come on behind it so strong that it gave a shadow. Maks sat up straight until the chair squeaked. - Can you smell the ozone? - He asked. - Like before a storm. It smelled of metal and wet stone after the rain. In the nooks and crannies of the warehouse, something rang out: the creak of beams, the quiet groan of pipes. Lena touched the edge of the frame. A gentle tingling sensation ran through her fingers and palm. And then something happened that could no longer be ignored. A gap showed between the frame and the paper. First thin as a hair, then thicker. Just a millimetre, and in the middle - depth. Not black, not white. Just distant. A quick breath escaped from Lena's nose. A colour of sky she had never seen shimmered in the crevice: purple with a touch of amber, as if a sunset had been painted on the back of her eyelids. - This is... - Maks circled the table. - No, that's not what I think it is. - 'Calm down,' Lena whispered, although she wasn't calm herself. - I'll just... I'll try. She moved a chair over. Basil murmured quietly in warning. Lena pressed her fingernail against the crack. It wasn't paper. It wasn't the wood of a table. It was something as soft as the surface of water and as hard as metal, at the same time. Her fingernail dipped a hair's breadth. A sound could be heard from the opposite side - a clatter. A pattern of knocks: three fast ones, a pause, two slower ones. Lena's heart responded with the same rhythm, as if someone inside was paddling. - Can you hear it? - She asked Maks, but he was already nodding. - It's like a signal. - A signal... For us? - He barely said it, and the light in the warehouse went out. Everything but the atlas and the bookmark. The silver frame flashed evenly, and the gap widened so that a thin hand could fit through it. The wind, though the window was closed, knocked over the dedication page. Somewhere above it the sign "SILENCE" squeaked. Lena looked through the drawing. On the other side really was their market. The same bright tile floor, the same fish fountain, only it was punctuated by strands of light, like ribbons of morning mist. The lime trees by the library steps had leaves like mirrors. In the distance stood a boy, perhaps their peer, wearing a sweatshirt with a school patch like Maks'. He waved a folded sheet of paper vigorously at them. His mouth was moving rapidly. After a moment, Lena understood what he was saying - without a sound, just by the movement of his lips: "Don't close it." - Don't close what? - muttered Maks, but took Lena's hand. - 'If it latches...' - 'Then first we need to know what's on the other side,' Lena replied, repeating the words from the sticker in the atlas, although she wasn't sure whether she was talking to Maks or to herself. The crack moved again. This time not upwards, not sideways, but towards them. As if someone had pulled an invisible knocker from within. The silver frame widened, its steps lengthened and flowed down onto the paper, forming a thin bridge of microscopic steps leading inwards. Heat escaped from the magazine. Everything became sharper: the droplets of water on the glass, the dust suspended in the air, even the quiet whispers they couldn't recognise, which formed their names. - Lena... Maks... It was not Mrs Gertrude's voice. It wasn't the voice of Mum on the phone, or Mr Nature, or anyone they knew. It sounded like the rain talking to the sheet metal of the roofs - soft but uninviting. Basil whined and squatted, ready to jump. Lena and Maks looked at each other. - On the count of three? - Maks asked, squeezing her hand tighter. - 'On the count of three,' she confirmed. They counted in their minds. One. Two. The door in the atlas glowed harder, as if responding to their rhythm. On the other side, a boy in a sweatshirt with a patch raised his hand and pointed at something behind him - a shadow glided across the square, quickly, without a sound. - 'Three,' Lena whispered, and lifted her foot over the microscopic steps as the air in the warehouse suddenly changed direction, as if the whole room had taken a deep breath, and the silver edges of the frame widened so that...