Harrow Street Station, 11:20 p.m. The lost property office closes tonight. Not for the night: for good. It's all going online now, a form and a photo and a courier. Whatever is still on your shelves at midnight goes to the auction house in the morning.

Eleven years of other people's forgetting, and it has come down to three things.

A single red mitten, child-sized.

A black umbrella with a carved duck's head for a handle.

And an accordion case, heavy, tagged 114, older than anything else in the room.

When you lift the case to shift it, something rustles. Taped to the underside is an envelope, soft with age. On the front, in blue ink: For whoever opens this office last.

That's you, apparently.