Small-town storefronts at dusk, when the signs light up and the antique shop stays open late.

I got into Marion late and almost didn’t stop. The neon changed that — a single working sign at the end of the block, humming above a doorway propped open with a brick.

The shop keeps its own hours. That night the hours were “until we feel like closing,” which turned out to be nearly nine.

Nothing came home with me but a photograph and the address, written in the back of the notebook for next time.

Sometimes the long way around is the point.