I was looking through some old photos the other day, and one of them stopped me. There, in the background, almost forgotten, was the old toy box. The same one we used to crowd around when we were kids.
It was scratched up, the lid always a bit crooked, but it held everything that mattered back then, tiny cars, mismatched action figures, a bear with one eye and a heart that somehow made us all feel safe.
I hadn’t thought about that toy box in years. But seeing it again, even just in a photo, brought something back. Not just the toys, but the noise, the laughter, the feeling of being completely lost in our own little world. I could almost hear my friends’ voices again. Some of them I haven’t seen in over a decade.
It’s strange how certain things stay with us, even quietly. They wait. Little ones. Wind-up robots, old figurines, small wooden animals. At first, I thought it was just a small thing. But then I saw more come in my mind, gently, almost like yesterday's memories.
And I get it now.
It’s not really about the toys.
It’s about the moments they carry. The stories. The people.
Sometimes, a small thing, a photo, a plastic soldier, a soft bear, can pull something warm to the surface. A part of yourself you thought time had buried.
That’s when I realized: toy boxes don’t belong to children.
They belong to memory.
And memory… memory belongs to everyone, no matter how old you are.

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