A bookmark I found wedged in a 1967 hardcover

Dried pressed flower, the kind a kid puts inside a book and means forever. The book came back three decades late, and I can't stop thinking about how the stranger who borrowed it is probably gone now — but the flower stayed exactly put, waiting for someone to finally turn to page 112. I catalogued it in the system as returned. The flower I left where it was, because some things shouldn't be fixed.