There is a bricked-up service door on a building I pass most weeks. I have no grand story about it. That is the point.
The doorway is still obvious because whoever closed it used a different brick. The lintel remains, as does one battered metal plate beside it where a bell or keypad used to be. The building has changed use more than once, but the wall has never quite caught up.
I like these leftovers because they are an honest kind of history. A plaque tells you what somebody decided was important. A blocked doorway tells you how the building actually worked. Deliveries came through here. Somebody had a key. Somebody waited in the rain for the door to open.
There are dozens of details like it around the city: painted-over lettering, steps that lead to nothing, windows cut into walls that used to be internal. Most disappear during the next proper refurbishment.
So this one goes into the archive before somebody finally matches the brick.