Hand-drawn script lettering sketch

The name is still on the wall by the bins, the one somebody wrote in black biro over the magnolia paint. The letters are loopy and open, with the tall strokes reaching up past the rest as if they're trying to get out of the block altogether. I can't make out the word. Dylan thinks it's Clreha, which is no name at all, so I've decided it's a place, somewhere with a harbour and no rent. I went down this morning with a damp cloth to see how much was left, and I stood there holding it for a good minute.

The caretaker had been at the wall already. He'd gone over the lower letters in a grey that didn't quite match, so now the word looks like it's being rubbed out by someone who is sorry about it. The last stroke, a long curl that ends in a hook, he'd missed. I traced it with my thumb. Whoever wrote it lifted the pen right at the end, as if they'd heard their mum shouting from the fourth floor and wanted to finish before they went.

I told him to leave the hook. He shrugged and said it was my wall to worry about, not his. So if you come up in March, look by the bins. Tell me what it says.