Sarah has always had a gift for gifts. Not the giving of them, though she is generous, but the making of them into something more. She is the person who turns an ordinary present into a moment. A little more thought in the wrapping. A note that says the thing most people leave unsaid. For as long as we have known each other, she has understood that how something arrives is part of what it means.
Somewhere along the way, the two of us started talking about how much of that is disappearing. We live in a time when a message can be written by a machine in seconds, when almost anything can be automated, personalized by an algorithm, and forgotten just as quickly. Convenient, certainly. But something real is being lost in the trade. The letter that took time. The keepsake meant to be held. The proof that someone, somewhere, made this for you and no one else.
We did not want to solve that for the whole world. We wanted to protect one small, irreplaceable part of it.
