hi, friend.
you’ve climbed the stairs to the attic.
the light is different up here—dusty, soft, quiet.

this is where i keep what once lived downstairs—
some gone, some resting,
others like letters i never mailed,
or flowers pressed between pages.

not everything here was meant to be sold.
but all of it meant something.

i didn’t want to let them go completely.
so i tucked them here,
for anyone who still wanted to look.