My grandmother kept a jar of buttons she would never explain. She guarded it more carefully than her jewellery. When burglars broke into her house, they ignored the jar. When she moved into a nursing home, she took it with her. When I asked why, she said, “Because they haven't finished yet.” I assumed she meant the buttons. I was wrong. After her funeral, I opened the jar. Inside each button was a tiny photograph. Not printed photographs. Reflections. Faces appeared when the buttons caught the light. Some were strangers. Others belonged to people I knew. My father. My childhood teacher. The postman. All of them were younger versions of themselves. At the bottom of the jar was a single note. Never add your own. Naturally, I did. I found an old black button from a coat in the attic and dropped it inside. My reflection appeared. But I wasn't alone. Someone stood behind me. A woman. My grandmother. She looked exactly as she had when I was ten. “You weren't supposed to see me yet,” she said. “Where are you?” “Between things.” She explained that the buttons belonged to people who had disappeared from ordinary life without dying. Some had vanished into war. Some into grief. Some simply stepped through the wrong doorway at the wrong moment. My grandmother had spent her life collecting evidence that they were still somewhere. “Can they come back?” “Sometimes.” “Can you?” She smiled. “Not anymore.” The reflection faded. The button remained. Years later, I still keep the jar. I never add anything. But every now and then, another face appears. I don't know whether that's a warning or an invitation. The marathon ended, as these things do, with a quiet cup of tea.