There was an old clock tower in the market square, tall and silent. Lila had known it since she was a little girl because her dad repaired clocks. What she liked most was the smell of grease and the ticking sound at night. That evening, the wind was strangely warm, like the breath of a cat. From upstairs came a soft whisper that wasn't in the plan. - Hello? - She asked, climbing the spiral staircase. The steps creaked and dust rippled in the torchlight like flour. Lila wasn't afraid, but her heart was counting beats like a metronome. In the clock's chamber, the gears glistened like wet scales. The milky moon shone through the dial and painted patterns. Lila noticed a crack in the board, as thin as a fingernail scratch. She levered it with a coin and the wood gave way with a sigh. Behind the board was a clipboard with a map and a pen that glowed. The pen did not lie still; it trembled like a wing trying to take off. - 'Lilo,' whispered a voice, soft as felt and a little sing-songy. - The clock is about to strike thirteen. I need your hands. The map was not ordinary; the lights on it moved. Lines flowed like a black stream in the rain. A glowing path led from the tower to the Forest of Whispers. A sign danced above the trail, golden and hot as a furnace. The gears suddenly slowed down, as if time had forgotten to work. The same warm wind blew and touched Lila's cheek. - Why me? - she whispered, raising her hand to pick up the pen slowly. At that moment the rope from the bell moved on its own, very slowly. For the first time the metal sounded, low and deep like a thunderstorm. The whole tower held its breath, and the dial flashed with a thirteenth light. A feather hovered in the air, the tip pointed up a dark staircase. From the other end of the stairs someone answered in a whisper, quite close.