Wait here for Tomas, the board said. The name frightened a newcomer who knew Tomas had died years earlier. Residents had stopped noticing the faded sentence, half concealed by newer notices.
He had once collected passengers when snow closed the upper road. The message belonged to a particular evening, but no date was visible from the path. Rain had stripped the lower corner where the date was written, leaving a temporary instruction looking permanent.
Board keeper Evi photographed the notice before removing it. A transport record supplied the likely evening, and a passenger remembered the long wait. Evi recorded those sources without presenting the inferred date as certain.
The new board required every notice to show when it was posted and when it should come down. Tomas's message went into the local collection. It could remain part of the town's memory without continuing to direct travelers toward a person who would never arrive. The distinction seemed small until Evi watched someone use the cleared space to post that day's actual road conditions.