What’s the last thing you held that felt like a memory?

I was binding a journal today—just a plain one, no fancy covers—and the leather started to smell faintly of my mother’s hands. Not her perfume, not anything she wore, but the way her fingers used to press into the spine of old books. I didn’t even know I was missing it until I felt it. Now I keep thinking: what small thing, just a texture or weight, has ever pulled a moment back from silence? I don’t need an answer. Just wanted to ask someone else if they’ve felt that.