Every summer Nadia dreaded the week at her grandmother's house, where the rooms smelled of mothballs and nothing was allowed to be touched. The worst was the grandfather clock in the hall, which chimed so loudly at night that Nadia lay awake counting the hours. Her grandmother wound it each evening with a small brass key she kept on a ribbon around her neck, turning the crank exactly seven times, never more. One evening the old woman pressed the key into Nadia's palm. 'Your turn,' she said. Nadia protested that she would break it, that she did not know how. Her grandmother only folded the girl's fingers over the cold metal and guided her hand to the clock face. That night, for the first time, the chiming did not wake her. In the morning Nadia found herself listening for it, almost disappointed by the silence between the hours. When her grandmother asked whether she had slept, Nadia said yes, and was surprised to realize it was true.