The lost-and-found of Karagol occupies one shelf in the back of the post office, and Nuri has run it for thirty years with the seriousness of a national archive. Umbrellas. Keys. One glass eye, unclaimed since 1994. He knows every object and, eventually, every owner. Karagol is small. Things lost here were lost by someone. The wallet changes that. Brown leather, worn soft, containing forty lira, a dry-cleaning ticket, and an identity card for one Halil Sancak, born in Karagol in 1961, residing at 14 Cherry Street. There is no Cherry Street in Karagol. There has never been a Halil Sancak. Nuri, who has personally delivered mail to every door in town since before the dam was built, checks the registry twice and then, feeling foolish, the cemetery. The next week it's a child's school notebook, full of neat homework, from a school that doesn't exist. Then a ring engraved E & M, 1987 — no record of the marriage. Then photographs: a family at a picnic by the lake, laughing, at a spot Nuri recognizes instantly and has never seen this crowded. He starts a new ledger and labels it, after some thought: PROPERTY OF NO ONE. By winter, it is the thickest book in the post office. The items keep arriving every Thursday. Nobody delivers them.