Somewhere in a sunlit room far away, an elderly handsmith kept a small leather notebook where she had once sketched the first capital A for a client who never returned. In the margin she’d written, in a starched, careful hand: “For when someone remembers.” She lived long enough to see a photograph of a poster printed in her forms; she did not claim it, but in a letter she wrote: “It is nicer to be used than to be forgotten.”