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Jo took one last look in the mirror next to the front door, adjusted her rimless glasses and slung her shoulder bag over her shoulder, which contained the mysterious photo of the garden gate. Newton purred a sceptical ‘See you later’ before demonstratively curling up in his favourite spot. On her way to the Kaffeeklatsch café, Jo slowly pushed her bike past the colourful facades, her thoughts spinning like wheels that weren’t quite turning smoothly. She took the photo out of her bag and looked at it again: a weathered garden gate, overgrown with wild ivy, with the number 27 on it. Something stirred inside her at the sight of…

The morning crept cautiously through Johanna Weber’s flat – a timid light crept along the edges of the curtains, casting pale streaks on the floor. It smelled of paper, old wood and the last remnants of coffee from the night before. Jo, as she was simply called, stood barefoot in the kitchen, stirring a cup of cold mocha, more out of habit than enjoyment. Newton had curled up on the armchair, a ball of wool with ears. The world was still quiet, as if it wanted to give her time. Jo stopped in the hallway, the mug in her hand. Her grandmother’s antique mirror hung crookedly above the chest of…