Twenty-four books that do not exist.

A municipal inspector audits every streetlamp in a city that has forgotten what night is for.

Forty-one poems drawn as coastlines, each one redrawn by the next tide.

Essays written in the dead hour, on insomnia, bread ovens and the radio shipping forecast.

Moths, foxes, night buses: a naturalist’s catalogue of everything awake after midnight.

Two archivists find the same letter, one on each side of the paper, telling opposite stories.

A comic cookbook in which every recipe is also a small crime.

A ferry that only runs when the moon is below the horizon, and the nine people aboard.

How clocks, compasses and kettles taught us to trust devices that do one thing well.

A year of after-hours notes: what gets returned, what gets lost, who comes in to get warm.

Broths from twelve time zones, translated by a cook who never left her kitchen.

Short poems for the long wait between a light going on and someone arriving.

A dead-letter office clerk starts answering the mail that nobody collected.

Gravity, tides and stirring: a graphic essay in which every panel is a cup of tea.

Translated from an invented language, a novel told entirely through shop-window signs.

Fourteen short pieces about keeping one light on, written by a keeper of none.

A mapmaker who cannot sleep draws the city as it looks to the people who are awake in it.

The night baker’s handbook, with a long chapter on why dough rises when nobody watches.

Poems arranged by shelf order: each book on the wall lends one line to the next.

Rooms, tunnels, stairwells: a measured survey of how places answer back.

Twelve strangers share a final tram, and each tells the story of how they came to be on it.

A wordless graphic novel about the people who clean office towers between midnight and dawn.

A sequence of seven long poems, one for each way the light leaves a valley.

A retired night nurse solves small neighbourhood mysteries without leaving her armchair.

A short, illustrated history of daylight saving, railway time and the hour that doesn’t exist.