Passage: Grandfather kept a battered tin box on the highest shelf of his workshop, and as a child I imagined it held treasure. When he finally took it down on my tenth birthday, I leaned in eagerly. Inside there was no gold, no jewels—only a faded train ticket, a child's drawing, and a single brass button. He held each item as though it were precious, and slowly I understood that to him, it was. These were not worthless scraps but the keepsakes of a whole life, each one tied to a memory he could not bear to lose.