Underneath, in a different ink—one she'd used when sealing lanterns—she added, "And take care of the old men's watches."

"Because it sits just past the seam," the old man said. "Where most stop, the extra quality waits—an extra stitch, a drop more polish, a minute more listening. It doesn't cost much in the doing, but it changes everything that follows."

The old man smiled like someone who had been waiting on a long line. "Then go. The river still needs lanterns."

Alice blinked. "I—I only thought… who are you?"

Alice opened it. The pages were full of lists: recipes for varnish, instructions for balancing tunings, rules like "If the hinge squeaks, oil it until it sings; if it still squeaks, you missed something." Between the practical entries lay sketches of people with arrowed notes—"look here," "listen longer," "ask twice."