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Under the floorboards of the world lives a mouse named Barnaby. He is the Curator.
His museum is vast. It is filled with buttons. Brass buttons, pearl buttons, plastic buttons.
"This one," Barnaby squeaked to his apprentice, "fell off the coat of Napoleon during the retreat from Moscow."
"This one," he pointed to a blue toggle, "was lost by a little boy on his first day of school. He cried."
The buttons were memories. They held the emotion of the moment they were lost.
A giant hand ripped up the floorboard. A human face peered down. "My button!"
It was an old woman. She saw the museum. She saw a small, silver button near the entrance.
"That's it," she whispered. "From my wedding dress."
Barnaby trembled. But he was a Curator. He understood provenance.
He pushed the silver button toward her. She picked it up. She smiled, tears in her eyes.
"Thank you, little mouse," she said. She placed a crumb of cheese in its place.
Barnaby ate the cheese. It was a fair trade. A memory for a meal.