Sometimes Arthur visits this nook of a shop that, far in the back, has a small box of old postcards being sold for a nickel or so. To him, this box seems to refill magically. He would never want an explanation as to who abandoned these cards or why, and he would never want to walk in and see them being put into or taken out of the box by hands that are not his own.

He picks out anything that catches his eye, but secretly he is there to find old love letters with no names attached and long descriptions of trips to places he has never seen and "Wish you were here"s. Buying lives he can pretend he's lived and stories he can imagine the endings to.

He goes home and puts them into his own box, hidden far away in the back of a hard-to-get-to drawer. It's full of things that only make sense to him, some that he's kept for decades. All of them are small and easy to hold, easy to move from one apartment to the next, but they're full of memories and feelings that are good and bad and everything in between, and they're all his.