On Wednesday afternoon it rained as evenly as from a tap. Mila was back from school, carrying bread and a thin newspaper. There was an old, striped umbrella in the aisle under the cage. Someone had left it in a stand, right next to the letterbox. When Mila touched it, the material was warm and dry. On the handle someone had scratched her name, very clearly. Mila furrowed her brow and looked around the empty corridor. After all, no one in the block knew her well. She took her umbrella into the flat and spread it out over the bath. The drops clattered as if playing a tune she hardly knew. Suddenly, letters appeared from the water on the inside. They lined up slowly, but wrote cleanly, like a ballpoint pen. The writing called out: Mila, reading rain and asking for help. Immediately underneath, an address was made: Ms Lila, 3rd floor, 7B. Next to it a sentence was added: She lost her coat button, don't say you know. The umbrella closed by itself and pointed down the corridor like a compass. Mila slipped her feet into her wellingtons and slipped out of the house. On the stairs she heard footsteps clattering like quick footsteps. In front of the lift, the display flashed and then showed 3 and a half. The doors opened without a sound, to a mezzanine she didn't know. The walls glistened with damp, and a quiet hum hung in the air. The umbrella pulled her hand and suddenly something fell on the tiles. A silver button fell out of the handle, cold as the mist over the river. It stopped at door 7B and then the handle vibrated from inside.