I sift through those stories the way a jeweler sorts glass and gems. Some are brittle, edged with regret. Others glow warm and stubborn, like embers you can coax into a flame. I trade them in whispers and postcards, in midnight conversations beneath a sky smeared with traffic lights. People come to me when they’ve misplaced more than keys: identity, courage, an old laugh. I give back what they need by helping them remember the shape of themselves.