“You found me,” the old man in the knitted sweater whispers in a soft, hoarse voice. I wonder about the sweater, since this is one of the hottest days of the year. He looks out from the doorway of his old house beside the canal.
I’ve just rung his doorbell to tell him that his keys are hanging in his lock. A cluster of different keys, crowded on a wrinkled brown leather trunk label. I still remember the hassle when I once left my keys outside in the lock and they vanished.