Lena was eleven years old and liked the silence of libraries. On this rainy afternoon she hid between the shelves, in the travel section. A downpour was drumming on the windowsill and the room was almost empty. Mr Olsza, the librarian, had disappeared into the back room for tea. Lena opened an atlas, but the card was wedged under something heavy. There was a sweet smell of dust and glue behind the map bookcase. Between the pages lay a thin notebook with a dark, metallic cover. On the top was a sign resembling a compass without the north. When she touched it with her finger, the silver ink moved, as if alive. The lines arranged themselves into a plan of shelves and a small door. The mark shone, and the air smelled of rain and needles, though the windows were closed. Lena squeezed the shoulder strap of her rucksack and pressed the drawn handle. She stiffened, but curiosity was stronger than her caution. The shelf vibrated, slid to one side and revealed a passage. Behind her there was no wall, just a narrow stone corridor. Ropes dangled from the ceiling and a metal bell sounded in the distance. A breeze blew in from the cold darkness and three blue lights twinkled. Lena pulled out a notebook to close the hole, but the door locked. Then she heard her name, quietly, as if whispered by the bookcases themselves. The voice came from the corridor and sounded like her own. The silver ink on the cover pulsed, as if counting her breaths. Footsteps rattled across the stones, closer and closer, and something blurred in the light.