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 I caught myself running my thumb along the spine, not checking the stitching, but just feeling the grain of the leather. It wasn’t about the book. It was the way it reminded me of my mother’s hands, how she used to press her palm flat against old pages when she read aloud. I don’t remember what she said, only that silence after. That quiet weight. What’s the last thing you touched that didn’t just exist—it carried something else?