One quiet afternoon, I wandered into the garage searching for an old toolbox. A single flickering bulb cast long shadows across shelves of forgotten things. The air smelled of dust, wood, and time. In the farthest corner, half-hidden beneath cobwebs, I found a cracked leather photo album.
Its pages, fragile but intact, revealed black-and-white photographs—weddings, birthdays, ordinary days that once filled this house with life. Some faces I knew; others felt like whispers from another era. Standing there, I realized the garage wasn’t just storage—it was a vault of memory.
That day, I left not with the toolbox I’d sought, but with something far more lasting: a quiet reminder that time doesn’t erase our stories—it keeps them safe, waiting for someone to remember.
