So she gathered a small group: the grocer, the baker, a fisherman who’d once told her directions as if speaking a prayer. They opened the shop windows and dragged out boxes of old things—children’s shoes, a frayed seaman’s cap, handwritten recipes that stained at the edges. They invited people to come not for a session but to touch, to ask, to argue, to make a coffee and tell the story of the object someone else might have been.