In the event of a disaster, there is one thing I would salvage from my room, be it through snapping sprouts of flame or tumbling walls and ceilings. It would not be lavish jewellery or an uncommon collection of feathers and stones, but a plain paper box in the drawer of my nightstand, where it rests close to my head as I sleep. Inside the paper box are cards and letters dating back to the fourth year of my life: collections of postcards, cordial wishes, wistful goodbyes, and letters passed between the hands of others before reaching their recipient, all tucked in envelopes of varying colours and sizes. I used to read through the box from time to time, nostalgically running my fingers over the cards textured with indents left by pens and pencils, studying the unique scripts packed with the character of each writer. Together, they are much more than lead and ink on paper, but a collective representation of my attachments and memories. The letter box in the drawer of my nightstand grows heavier every year, slower every year...