“Your mailbox?” asked Niko Price, the restoration coordinator, when he saw Owen’s face.

“Destroyed. Somebody wanted to stop a letter arriving.”

Niko lowered his brush. “What letter?”

“I don’t know yet. But there’s a moth tile beside the post. Leona Bell made those, didn’t she?”

Niko looked toward the scaffolding, where Etta’s daughter-in-law Iris was arranging photographs for the opening display. His discomfort was small but unmistakable. “We agreed to keep discussions about attribution off the work floor until after Saturday.”

“Who agreed?”

“The committee. It doesn’t help the painters to argue about what happened before any of us were here.”

Owen glanced around at the volunteers. Two teenagers were repainting fish scales. A retired bricklayer was mixing plaster. Mara stood on a short ladder, using a narrow brush to repair the edge of a blue wing. Their labor deserved a truthful account of whose design they were bringing back.

“It was before some of us were here,” Owen said. “Not all.”

Niko rubbed his eyes. “Etta says she drafted the mural with temporary assistants. She says Leona helped with the tiles but quit before installation.”

“My father told me Leona drew the woman in the middle.”

“Your father wasn’t on the arts committee.”

“No. He drove the truck that carried the panels.”

Iris approached, her clipboard pressed to her chest. “Owen, everyone’s upset about the fire. But we cannot let a private dispute hijack opening week.”

Owen looked at the board beside her. A heading announced ETTA VOSS: THE VISION BEHIND THE WALL. Under it were photographs of Etta at an easel and quotations about generosity and collaboration. The story had been repeated so often that nobody seemed to notice the absence of the hands that had painted the original wall.

“Did you ever meet Leona?” he asked.

Iris hesitated. “No. She moved away long ago.”

“Then how do you know what she made?”

“Because Etta has been telling that story for decades.”

Owen picked up his jacket. The words were not malicious. They were worse in a quieter way: proof of how comfortably a story could harden without anyone testing it.

He left the hall and called his father, whose hearing had become unreliable but whose memory for places remained precise. Thomas Mercer answered after six rings. Owen told him about the red mailbox, the moth tile, and the blue-and-yellow card.

For a long time, Thomas said nothing. Then he asked, “Was the moth looking left or right?”

“Left. Why?”

“Because the ones looking left marked the places where Leona wanted children to put their hands. The other ones were just decorations.”

“Who would put one outside my house?”

“I don’t know. But if somebody wants you to look with your hands, there may be a reason.”