Barnaby

Harry tucks the last photograph in the cardboard box, and then lifts the surprisingly light box into his arms. "Mrs. Ryan?" he calls, "I'm just gonna run this back to the older man who left it here like I told you." She peers up at him, her eyes a little glazed.
"Sure, dear," she replies, and then looks off into the distance again.
He steps out into the daylight, blinking at first, and checks the little hand-drawn map in his pocket. It's not far at all, he thinks. This won't take long at all.
He quickly walks the block and a half to the address on the map, and then checks it again when he stands before it. The decrepit old lot just doesn't seem to him like the kind of place someone would live, and the ramshackle old house seems to be in such disrepair that no one could live there.
He starts, unsure, towards the house, and stops short when he sees the old man on the front porch. He stands slightly stooped over, a broom in his hand. He stares at Harry wordlessly.
"I'm, uh, just returning some of your belongings. They're all in there. I hope you don't mind that I went through them." He takes another step towards the house, the porch, the man. Adversely, the old man seems to shrink back from him without moving a muscle. Harry stops short. "I guess, uh, I guess I'll leave them here. Ah, if you have questions," he stammers quickly, unsure of what he is even saying, "about what we took, I mean, and what we left... I suppose you know where the shop is."
The old man stares back, still silent.
"Uh," manages Harry again, and then he spins on his heel and leaves the lot, feeling eyes on his back all the way.