People remembered pieces. A neighbor who mended shoes recalled a woman who sold postcards by the station. A post office clerk mentioned a girl who had once delivered letters with such careful penmanship customers framed the envelopes. One by one, the fragments assembled into a trail that smelled faintly of ink and lemon oil.

Once, a factory near the tracks produced lanterns that leaked when rain came. The foreman called them acceptable. Alice Liza stayed behind every night to seal tiny gaps with beeswax and patience; the lanterns lasted through storms. She did it for the extra: the small insistence that something be better even when "good enough" was cheaper.

Underneath, in a different ink—one she'd used when sealing lanterns—she added, "And take care of the old men's watches."

"Alice Liza," she echoed, filling the syllables with the small fierce light she kept for cataloguing curiosities.

"A maker," he said. "A keeper. Names gather when people pay attention. They grow long. Alice Liza—she liked lists. She liked making things better by looking at them until they altered."

"Extra quality?" Alice asked, touching a tag.

Galitsin Alice Liza Old Man | Extra Quality

Underneath, in a different ink—one she'd used when sealing lanterns—she added, "And take care of the old men's watches." People remembered pieces

"Alice Liza," she echoed, filling the syllables with the small fierce light she kept for cataloguing curiosities. One by one, the fragments assembled into a

"A maker," he said. "A keeper. Names gather when people pay attention. They grow long. Alice Liza—she liked lists. She liked making things better by looking at them until they altered."

"Extra quality?" Alice asked, touching a tag.