How much of your childhood do you truly remember? It all began last autumn, in the hushed quiet of my mother’s attic. The air was thick and still, carrying the scent of slow time, of dust and brittle memories. A single, bare bulb cast long, dancing shadows across forgotten furniture as I searched. I found it tucked beneath the eaves: a simple cardboard box, the word ‘Keepsakes’ scrawled across ...
