Sometimes I'm afraid to count the books on the shelf. Not because there are many of them - although yes, they already live on the windows, on the table, under the bed and in a shoe box. But because I keep scraps of life between the pages.

A dry maple leaf from a trip to Lviv. It rustled in my coat the whole way on the bus, then fell on the bed in the hotel, and I felt ashamed - as if I had brought something too personal with me. I put it in the book I was reading then, and here it is - still there. The book now smells of autumn.

In the other one - a movie ticket. The inscription is almost invisible, but I remember what the film was, that then for the first time I held someone's hand so tightly, as if we were together against someone. It all ended in two weeks, but the ticket remained.

Why do we do this? Why don't we throw it away?
Maybe because we're afraid we'll forget? Or, on the contrary, we want to find it, touch it, and remember it again - so that our heart will tremble for a second?

When you open a book and suddenly a card with the inscription "just don't lose it" falls out, your heart will definitely tremble.
Although you no longer remember who wrote it.

Paper stores more than it seems. I have a note from a friend from childhood - we agreed to write each other letters during breaks. I still remember what her handwriting looked like.
Do you have things that no one but you will understand?