Maren came to the house after her shift. She did not know about the train ticket, but she knew the quilt. Peter had joined a hospital sewing circle that met twice a month for patients, caregivers, and staff. He could barely thread a needle, so he became the person who collected stories for each square. The rose cushion belonged to the circle's quiet room. When it was scheduled for replacement, he asked to repair the cover and later requested it for his final stay.

The unfamiliar fabrics belonged to people from the circle. A denim square came from a widower who had stopped attending. Green gingham came from a nurse's lunch bag. Peter had intended the quilt for the new family room, where relatives waited through long treatments. He brought it home to finish the binding after the hospital renovation was delayed. Maren thought I knew. Peter had told everyone his wife was the only person patient enough to fix his corners.

That compliment irritated me almost as much as it touched me. Peter had volunteered my patience without asking whether I wanted the task. Maren accepted the criticism and offered to take the quilt back unfinished. Tess said we should delay any decision for a week. I realized both women were giving me the choice Peter had assumed, so I placed the quilt back in the cedar bench but kept the ticket.

I showed her the ticket. The destination was Bellweather, a town two hours north where Peter's younger brother, Colin, lived. They had not spoken in eleven years, ever since an argument over their mother's estate. Peter claimed the trip never happened because his blood counts were low. The punched ticket proved he had boarded. Under another quilt pocket, Tess found a railway locker receipt and a penciled number. The locker lease expired at the end of the week. Colin's name appeared on the emergency-contact line.