The tin box my grandma left for me was finally opened.
It contains every letter, every postcard, and every post-it note I wrote to her from childhood to adulthood.
Even I forgot about some of them, but she arranged them neatly in chronological order, with transparent tape all over the corners, as if she was hiding the most precious treasure in the world.
I squatted on the floor of the old house, flipping through the yellowed pages, and in that rusty iron box, I got to know the person who loved me like my life again.
Grandma, I really miss you.
