They always came to him. Loneliness, sloppiness, forgetfulness... He could always find what they were looking for, whether it was a person, an object or a thought. His father had taught him well. Once a prominent man, with an ebony handlebar moustache, full beard and amber eyes like a hawk, now a vague memory of the past. For the people of Orléans at least, not for him. He clearly remembered the day his father took his top hat and cane with a silver wolf handle, and left the house while giving a small twist at the moustache between his mischievously twinkling eyes and slightly smiling mouth, as if to say "See you later, son."

But later never came.

With his father gone, the son had set his mind on taking over the finder business. Whispers were everywhere, however. "He lost his father. How can he find our things?" "His skin is as smooth as a baby's bottom, let him see a few more winters before he can help us." The boy felt they were right and decided on the first thing he had to find.

Himself.

And so he left. Traveled the world. Saw many places. Found a forgotten code here, a runaway cat there. Until he saw her. Long, mahogany hair that shimmered in the autumn sun and full, cherry lips with a lovely smile on them. By now he was a young man, with the finest peach fuzz on his upper lip. Together they went for walks in the Luxembourg Gardens, day after day, year after year. On a winter morning she gave birth to their daughter. As he looked into her amber eyes he realised he found what he had been looking for. It was time to go back.

Back to Orléans.

One day, early in spring, after the chestnut horses were harnessed, the family was ready to leave. Word of their arrival after a two-day journey spread fast. Again, the whispers. "The lost son has returned." "Look at what he found on his way." They were talking about the treasures he took from his journeys to Africa and Russia that were carried into the house. After a while, the family had settled and many a visitor came over, usually with a request. M. Arbour had lost the keys of his attic and returned with the memory of where he had stored them. The baker was looking for a new bread recipe and returned with a copy of a German cookbook. It was like the man could provide an answer for any question.

Then Mme. Dubois called on him.

The poor woman was weeping, until she could shed no more tears. In her hands she held a letter with a military seal. Apparently, her husband got lost during a snowstorm earlier that year, and after spending a night outside, had lost his leg to frostbite. Being recovered, he had to return home, as his service was no longer required. However, being a man of little means, there was no way he could afford the journey. The man assured that he would get her husband back. To express her gratitude, she gave him a treasure she received from a stranger many years ago. There it laid, in a velvet-lined box.

A silver cane handle.

Soon bags were packed, a horse was saddled. The man looked into a mirror and gave a last twist to his moustache for a symmetric look. When he turned, his daughter was standing at the end of the hallway. And he smiled at the small, raven-haired girl as he closed the door between them.