On the edge of Birchwood, where the tarmac gives way to a gravel road and reeds, stands a station that nobody needs anymore. The plaster has faded to the colour of the morning mist, the canopy over the platform has leaned back as if to eavesdrop, and tarnished glass lurks in the windows. Time didn't just stop here in the heads of the adults as they talked about the trains of yesteryear; it stopped for real - on the big clock above the entrance, the hands were perpetually stuck on 20:07. Lena, Olek and Maks came here with a camera on a tripod, a rucksack full of batteries and the permission of Mr Hubert, who looked after the Chamber of Memory. They were to make a short film about places that had disappeared from the map. Lena liked to look where others had not looked; Olek believed in what could be counted and measured; Maks had an ear for sounds, catching winds in chimneys and whispers of leaves. - 'They say you can hear a whistle every evening at this time,' said Lena, unscrewing the tripod. - 'Only the tracks are gone. - 'People like tales,' muttered Olek, but he set up the microphone anyway. - Let's check. Maks leaned over the planking of the platform. Moss and pansies grew in the cracks, as if someone had planted them here with a view to trains that would not come. From the building came the smell of dust, old newspapers and something oily that remembered the old hinges. The door inside creaked softly. Mr Hubert had left them a key and brief instructions: he could look in, move nothing, lock with two locks. The hallway greeted them with the rustling of their own footsteps. Behind the checkout grille lay yellowing tickets and a stamp with chipped ink. A timetable hung on the wall, its corners stiff as bat wings. The last entry in the duty book, standing on the desktop, read: Passenger 3437, arrival 20:07, platform 1. - 'Someone must have added it as a joke,' said Olek, although louder than necessary, as if he wanted to drown out his own doubts. The sun had rolled behind the forest line and the platform was shrouded in the colour of washed-out tea. Lena started the recording. A still frame of a clock appeared on the phone screen. Maks set up his torches, leaned against a pillar and listened. Somewhere far away he caught a vague turmoil - maybe a tractor in a field, maybe a hay cart. Then everything went quiet. Then the clock above the entrance vibrated. Just once, as if it had hunched its shoulders. The metal minute hand vibrated and jumped forward a hair, then froze again. Lena felt the hair on her forearms stand up, even though she was wearing a hoodie. Olek looked at the screen - the red recording dot was glowing more brightly than usual. - 'It's a draught,' he announced, but there wasn't even a trace of wind in the hall. The air grew cooler, like an ice-cream parlour just inside the open door of a freezer. From behind the cash register came a quiet, rustling sound, exactly like the sound a thick notebook makes when someone slowly slides it off the countertop. Maks raised his hand. - Do you hear that? - he whispered. - It's not a tractor. Outside, twilight fell. The contours of the trees flattened into one dark wall. Somewhere on the overpass a crow cawed, but immediately fell silent, as if something told it to be quiet. At 8:06 p.m., Lena accidentally touched the cool metal of the handrail and jumped up - she had the impression that the floor under the platform trembled for a moment. - Does it register? - Olek asked. - Just don't blink, the camera. The hands on the big clock stiffened by half a breath before the next minute. Time took on a taste of cheeky air just before the laughter, only no one was laughing. Lena counted to twelve in her mind and then, as if from a thin sheet, there was a long, clear whistle. It wasn't loud, but it went straight into their bones. The ground beneath the platform trembled a second time, this time more clearly, as if someone had run through a hidden corridor. A strip of pale light appeared in the path where the rails had once been, like the trace of a torch sliding under a table. It stretched out, thickened, and suddenly the yellow light on the settee, which Lena called an eye, came on by itself. The air smelled suddenly of wet coal and steam, though there was nothing around to cause it. - Lena... - said Maks almost silently, pulling her by the sleeve. A chill began to blow through the gaps in the platform boards, and a quiet click sounded from the depths of the ticket office, behind a checkered window, like a key being turned slowly. The blind in the window moved, twitched a second time and began to rise, inch by inch, as if someone on the other side was taking a breath before what they were about to say.