Hrafn.

An earring, a key, a little plastic soldier, a ring with no name inside it. They're arranged by stretch of road — the village on one side, the valley in the middle, the pass at the far end — and within each stretch by kilometer. Nobody's arranged them that way and nobody knows they're arranged at all. Ask him about any one of them and Hrafn will tell you which bend it came from and what month. The tray has gotten too small for him: there's now a biscuit tin on the bench and a jar of screws that aren't screws.

He knows the surname that lives in every house in the village and every farm in the valley. Number thirty-one has had the blue door and the crooked mailbox since before he was born, and nobody needs to remind him. The office stopped printing him route lists a long time ago, because he never looked at them. He finds out someone has moved three weeks before word gets round at the shop, and he never asks: he just notices the shutter down, the car that's gone, the new handwriting on the mailbox.