Nobody bid on the lunch tin until a dealer offered a small sum for its painted lid. Then a woman at the back raised her hand and asked to read the inscription. To Frank, it said, for the days you stayed.
She knew the handwriting of her mother, who had worked as a cleaner in the hall. Frank had been the caretaker. Family stories described him as a man who left without saying goodbye, taking money he was owed and leaving the winter repairs unfinished.
Inside the tin was a hospital visitor's pass and a receipt for train fare. The dates matched her mother's final illness. The woman could not establish who paid for what, but the objects suggested that his departure had not been the simple abandonment she inherited.
The auctioneer offered to withdraw the lot while ownership was checked. The dealer lowered his paddle. Outside, rain drummed on the hall steps as the woman photographed the inscription. She did not yet have a new family story. She had a reason to stop repeating the old one with such certainty.