My grandmother kept a jar of buttons she would never explain. It sat on the kitchen windowsill between the basil and the radio, catching sunlight in hundreds of colours. Whenever I asked about it, she changed the subject. “Some things aren't improved by knowing.” After she died, I inherited the house. I found the jar exactly where she'd left it. Inside were ordinary buttons: wooden, brass, pearl, plastic. Some belonged to coats. Others looked as though they'd been cut from uniforms I'd never seen. There were exactly eighty-seven. I counted them twice. Then I noticed the names scratched into the glass. Each button corresponded to someone. My grandfather. My mother. The woman who lived next door. People I recognised from old photographs. And one name I didn't. Elias Vale. I searched the family records. Nothing. The following morning, a letter arrived. It was addressed to my grandmother and dated forty-three years earlier. Dear Margaret, You were right. I should have come back. Keep the button. If he returns, you'll know. There was no signature. That evening, someone knocked at the door. An elderly man stood outside. He introduced himself as Elias. He looked exactly like the photograph tucked behind my grandmother's wedding portrait. Except the photograph was dated 1968. “I think your grandmother has something of mine,” he said. I held up the jar. He smiled sadly. “She kept all the things people left behind when they disappeared.” I asked what he meant. He looked towards the kitchen. “Your grandmother knew where they went.” Then he reached into his coat and removed a single wooden button. “I've come to collect the last one.” The next morning, the jar was empty. I never saw Elias again. But sometimes, when I'm sorting through old clothes, I find buttons that don't belong to anything I own. I keep them. Some things aren't improved by knowing. The marathon ended, as these things do, with a quiet cup of tea.