They shine the way memories do — softly, from the inside.
Once, these little red glass beads were more than objects; they were treasures carried in small pockets, warmed by hands that believed afternoons would last forever. We rolled them across dusty ground, argued over whose was brighter, whose was luckier, whose held the light just right.
Each scratch came from a story, each bubble trapped inside the glass from a moment we didn’t know we’d miss. There was no rush then — only laughter, knees on the earth, and the quiet pride of owning something simple yet magical.
Now they rest in silence, but if you look closely, they still remember.
They remember childhood voices, summer heat, and a time when happiness fit easily in the palm of a hand.
Leave a Reply