Policy says hold it thirty days. He holds it ninety. Nobody has ever asked him why. For thirty-one years, Moss Iqbal has kept what other people left behind at Chicago Union Station. A wedding ring in a potato chip bag. A child's inhaler. Four skeins of yarn for a baby who hadn't been born yet. Every object is logged in a hardbound ledger, held long past the point where anyone should reasonably keep it, on the chance that somebody comes back. Because that is what Moss believes, and he has built a life on it: things wait. A thing put down is not a thing lost. Then one August they send him an apprentice. Marisol is nineteen, she is from Little Village, and she does not want to be there. Inside a month she is better at the job than he is. Inside six she has asked him the one question he has spent twenty-eight years not answering. Because under his desk is a duffel bag that has been there since 1998. It has never been in the logbook. His daughter left it there the day she walked out of his life, and he has never once opened it. Now the railroad is closing the office. Everything on the shelves has to go somewhere. And a man who has spent three decades keeping other people's things safe has eight weeks to find out whether he was guarding them, or hiding behind them. A novel about the things we can't keep and can't put down, told across one final year in a basement room where the lost things wait: a ring that was never his to return, a letter written and never sent, a phone that rings at the same time every evening, and a man who comes every Thursday and never claims a thing. For readers of A Man Called Ove, The Midnight Library, and The Keeper of Lost Things: a quiet, funny, devastating story about a father, a daughter, and a room where nothing is gone.
