From the day I came into existence, I waited — to be touched, to be written upon, to be a bearer of unspoken love. I’m just a postcard, but once, I was someone’s precious memory.My journey began in an old stationery shop near College Street, Kolkata. There, amidst dust and forgotten things, I lay next to fountain pens, ink bottles, and greeting cards. I waited — wondering who would choose me, who would write upon me their secret words or tales of longing.I watched people come and go, some stopping by to buy pens, some searching for envelopes. Children bought