
There's a heavy, leather-bound album that sits on the same shelf in every older family home - black-and-white photographs glued at the corners onto cardboard pages, just a handful of images for an entire year, each one carefully chosen to represent something worth remembering: a wedding, a birth, a summer holiday, the first day of school.

At the bottom of a drawer, in a box in the attic, or on a shelf we haven't really looked at in years, almost all of us keep something that no longer serves any purpose. An old postcard no one will ever read again. A childhood toy. A ticket stub from a concert we went to fifteen years ago. The rational part of the brain knows these things should be thrown out or given away. And yet, for some reason we rarely manage to explain, they stay put, for years, sometimes for decades.

There is a quiet rule we usually recognize only later - the most beautiful moments rarely have a photograph.