It was an old shoebox covered in blue wrapping paper and stickers, pushed so far beneath her bed that I had to lie on the floor to reach it.

She’d always kept small treasures.

Tickets from a movie she’d hated.

A bracelet with a broken clasp.

Notes from friends that would have embarrassed them if they knew she’d saved them.

I had occasionally joked that she was preparing to open a museum of meaningless objects.

That afternoon, I carried the box to her desk and lifted the lid.

On top lay a collection of paper stars, each one folded from a strip of notebook paper.