I have a box that has followed me from one childhood room to the next. When I was seven, it rested under my bed. At 10, it moved into a room upstairs with me and onto a closet shelf. When I was 17, it wedged itself into a corner between my dresser and the wall. Now, it just sits on my desk in my apartment. Sometimes I’ll run my hand over it in the morning, or I’ll open it up when hit by a wave of nostalgia.