Kamionek on the Willow River seemed ordinary, if you didn't count the clock on the town hall tower, which was wrong by one beat once a year. The residents waved their hands at this, said to be due to the wind off the river, which has its own opinion of the time. Zosia liked this error in the clock. It seemed to her that then the world shuddered for a moment, as if someone was tilting back the curtain and peering inside. Aunt Nela's shop on the corner of the market smelled of starch, wet wool and warm rain, even in the middle of summer. A sign swung above the door: 'Under the Cloud - umbrellas, umbrellas and umbrellas'. Inside, hundreds of umbrellas hung on hooks like stars with silk patterned orbits. There were those with swan-shaped handles, checked, dotted and even one that changed colour depending on the weather - at least that's what Aunt Nela claimed when someone asked about the price. - 'That's what we're not touching today,' she said in the morning, tapping her fingernail on a glass display case in the depths of the shop. In the display case lay a folded umbrella with a strangely thin wire and a handle like a blob in which the light had frozen. Above the display case hung a card with a sentence written neatly in pen: "Do not open before the first lily rain". - And how do you know it's convalescent? - snorted Maks, Zosia's cousin, who had come on holiday from the city and was testing everything with a screwdriver. - What, it's raining flowers from the sky? - 'It smells,' said Aunty and smiled so that her glasses flashed. - And it rings a little quieter than a normal one. You'll see. Now, children, keep an eye on the shop. I'm going to the seamstress to sew the covers. If a customer comes in, invite him to look at the shop window and don't sell anything that hisses. And if it starts to rain and you smell lily of the valley, close the shutters and... - she suspended her voice, looking at them from above the frames. - Don't touch the showcase. I'll deal with it when I get back. Zosia and Max nodded at the same time, but each with a different face. Zosia with a slight trepidation, because she felt that something special was about to happen; Maks with the look of someone who had already internally opened every display case in existence, at least in his imagination. In the doorway hovered for a moment Pstryk the cat, the slant-eyed highwayman from the courtyard, then disappeared as if someone had blown him away. Zosia stayed at the counter, writing down in a thick notebook the names of the umbrellas her aunt had come up with offhand: "The rustler", "The Owl to Drizzle", "The Striped Shy". Maks, in turn, dived under the countertop, where wires, screws and circles - his kingdom - lay in cardboard boxes. - 'Look,' he muttered after a moment, pulling a tiny brass key from the box. It was smooth, as if someone had polished it with drops of water, and a tiny drop was etched on its head. When Maks took it in his hand, the key became surprisingly warm. - A toy for the display case? - 'Don't move it,' Zosia said reflexively, although she herself leaned closer. The key looked as if it belonged to someone who always carries a bit of rain with her. - Put it down before Auntie.... At the same moment the clock on the town hall struck thirteen times. The sound was soft and fierce, to linger in the air for a moment longer than usual. Zosia felt a fine needle of tension in her throat. Maks giggled. - There you go,' he said. - Your favourite mistake. The scent came first. Light but distinct, like a freshly plucked flower applied to the wrist. The air in the shop fluttered, as if someone had dragged a wing, and the first drops fell on the glass of the shop window. They were no bigger than pin heads, but each drop sounded a gentle bell. Zosia drew in air through her nose and until she stepped back. - 'Lily of the valley,' she said in a whisper. - 'Auntie,' began Maks, but he had already rushed to the shutters. They slammed them together with a bang, just as she had ordered. The rain was now silently ringing the wood and the tin sill. The world outside the window dimmed, as if someone had covered it with a canvas. The shop became semi-dark and suddenly the ticking of the little watch that Auntie kept in the cream box could be heard very clearly. An inscription appeared on the glass of the display case. It wasn't painted; it looked as if it had been formed from droplets that had formed into letters, began to creak and glow slightly. Zosia felt the skin on the back of her neck goose down to the poppy. She and Max stood so close that their breaths left circular stains on the glass. "Rain thirteen. Use the key that picks the hand itself." - This is some kind of auntie joke," Maks said, but he didn't sound so sure anymore. The words on the glass trembled, as if the drops were afraid to fall. - The key? What key... He touched his trouser pocket reflexively. He felt the warmth of the brass head through the material. Zosia looked at his hand, then at the inscription again. They both swallowed their saliva at the same moment. - He chose you,' she whispered. - Or you him. Maks twisted his mouth to make a 'I don't care there' face, but said nothing. Slipping his fingers into his pocket, he pulled out a key. As he held it in his hand, it seemed as if a tiny sun was slumbering inside. The rain rang evenly, like a metronome. The showcase beeped softly, as if it were alive and had just dragged itself from a nap. - Then maybe... it will open by itself? - suggested Maks, not very bravely. - Without us? Zosia shook her head. On the edge of the glass, drops formed into more words, slowly, patiently: "The Threshold of Rain waits." - Threshold... - Zosia until she had to sit down on a stool. - Threshold of what? The inscription did not continue. Instead, the floor beneath their feet seemed to take a breath, the wood clattered and burbled. The heavy umbrellas on the hooks rustled, like tall grasses in the wind. A milky light bounced off the display case, which flowed through the shop like a spilled milky ribbon and stopped at the back wall. Where Aunt Nela had long ago painted large green ferns on the plaster and - for decoration - a door without a handle. Except that the door, so far, was just paint. Now, in the place of the painted keyhole, a shadow appeared, thicker than the rest, as if a drop of night had blossomed on the wall. Maks reflexively walked closer. Zosia moved behind him, feeling each rainy note push small, fluttering concerns into her stomach. - 'That's silly,' he muttered, to give himself encouragement. - A wall is a wall. He put his fingers to the shadow. He stroked it as one would stroke a cat that might bite. The shadow bent as if it were the skin of a drum. Susan felt shivers all the way to the top of her head. - You have a key,' she reminded silently. Maks looked at her. He squeezed the brass head so hard that his knuckles turned white. The key was warm, now even hot, but not smoking. When he pressed it against the shadow, the shadow drew the metal inside like water. They heard a sound - not a clicking, not a popping, but something like a droplet falling into an empty well and hitting the surface, which turns out not to be water, but something that pretends to be water better than water. The umbrellas rustled simultaneously, as if nodding. The clock on the town hall no longer chimed, but somewhere in the middle of the shop time rolled up and sat politely under the counter. Zosia had the feeling that if she shouted, her voice would reverberate and not return. - 'You need to turn,' Maks said quietly. - On the count of three? - On three - she confirmed and almost didn't recognise her voice herself. They counted in whispers, the way one counts one's steps so as not to wake a sleeping house. - Once. Sunny dust flicked in the shop, as if a single, tiny light had been switched on at the back. - Two. A snap, a cat, scurried from somewhere behind the masthead barrel and stopped breathing. Or it only seemed that way. - Tr... They didn't finish. The key turned by itself, smoothly, obediently, as if it had been waiting for this moment all along. The shadow of the keyhole turned deep. The paint of the door began to run down the wall, like watercolour diluted with a tear. There were no bricks underneath. There was a wooden doorframe, old and polished by the touch of hands that had never been here. The handle, of metal so matt it absorbed the light, set sideways, ready. - Do you hear? - Zosia grabbed Maks by the sleeve. On the other side something clattered. Like distant footsteps on wet stone. Like sand sifting through fingers. Like... someone stopping just inside the door, or perhaps the threshold itself breathing? A smell she didn't know entered her nostrils: sparse green, cold needles and something else, like frost broken into a million tiny stars. - 'If Auntie...', Zosia began, but didn't finish, because all the umbrellas simultaneously leaned a little towards them, like a doe under the rain. The shop seemed to be listening. Maks put his hand on the door handle. He furrowed his brow. - 'It's either now or never,' he said almost inaudibly, although no one rushed them. The display case behind their backs made a long, quiet sound, like a note being dragged with a bow. The letters from the drop on its glass slid down and formed a new word. Zosia didn't have time to read, because at the same moment the doorknob moved of its own accord, as if someone on the other side had grasped it at exactly the same time. A stripe of light, not white and not yellow, but one that had both morning and midnight in it, streaked through the resulting crack. Something whispered in it, like a very distant leaf that knows their names. - Zosia... - it rang out, barely audible, somewhere between the drops. The handle vibrated a second time, more confidently. The frame responded with a quiet creak, so soft that it was more felt than heard. Maks looked at Zosia, Zosia at Maks. They both took in air as carefully as if each successive one could rock the whole shop. On the other side, the footsteps came two more paces closer and stopped exactly at...