The cards from your grandmother. The photos you printed and then didn't know what to do with.
The journal you filled and then put away because it felt too full of something to just leave on a shelf.
You haven't thrown any of it away. Because you can't. Because it matters in a way that's hard to explain, even to yourself. But it's not somewhere. It's just... around. In shoeboxes, in bags, in the bottom of drawers. Safe, but scattered. Kept, but not honoured.
The things that hold the story of your life deserve better than that.