The middle station connects the man's work and his room above it. The funicular cars meet outside his window for twelve seconds. His Sunday routine leads to the sea, the fish counter and a night sleeping alone. The cellist's later route takes her along the stair street instead of past his platform. These connections follow particular routines; they do not place every destination within sight of his window.
The annual account supplies eleven names and four and a half stars. He remembers nine bodies. Two entries show photographs taken in his room, but he cannot put a face above the blanket. He owns pillowcases he did not recognize. A healed bite matches none of the eleven names. Each discrepancy has its own evidence; the account does not explain them all, and neither does his memory.
At the final meeting of the cars, an unidentified hand rises in the descending car. He raises his without seeing whom he answers. The cars separate, but his hand stays raised. His precise vantage remains unspecified. Above the station, the second plate is visible from the door. The gesture and the waiting object persist without proof of mutual recognition.