What stays with Roy after the lighter is gone isn’t the satisfaction of closure but the map of all the small kindnesses he collected along the way. He keeps a folded postcard in his wallet, one he bought at that market, featuring a single crooked lighthouse against a blue sky. Sometimes, when a particular silence presses in, he takes it out and reads the handwriting on the back, a line someone scrawled about leaving and coming back. It reads: “Some things find their way.”