Mila was eleven years old and had pockets full of pencils. She lived on the third floor of an old townhouse. On a rainy Wednesday she climbed into the attic to get a cardboard box of jackets. Instead of jackets, she found a flat hat box. Inside lay a thin notebook with a navy blue cover. On the cover was a silver inscription: Imagination. The pages were clean, but seemed to have a slight sheen. Dust danced in the streak of light, like little goldfish. Outside the window, the rain rumbled and the wind whistled. Mila sat down on her chest and opened her notebook. She drew a cat with one stroke of her pencil. The cat blinked, moved its tail and stretched on the paper. Mila held her breath until she did. She touched the line with her finger. The line was warm, like fur under the sun. The cat looked at it curiously and meowed quietly. - If it works, let's make a door,' she whispered to herself. She drew a rectangle, a handle and a small peephole. The outline shone and spilled beyond the sheet of paper. The light touched the brick wall of the attic. A door appeared on the wall from the same dash. The handle was real and smelled of metal and rain. Mila placed the notebook in her lap and grabbed the handle. There was a cool breeze from inside the door, the smell of pine needles and wet leaves. She heard laughter, as if from a distant park after dark. - Hello? - she said uncertainly. The door answered with a short knock, as if someone had knocked. Then someone whispered her name. The handle moved on its own, millimetre by millimetre.