The Box of Future Memories

​I recently bought a "fixer-upper" house at an auction. While clearing out the insulation in

the attic, I found a small, locked wooden box tucked behind a chimney flue.

On the lid, someone had carved: "Open when the world feels too fast." ​I spent the whole

afternoon prying it open, expecting old coins or maybe jewelry. Instead,

I found dozens of handwritten envelopes, all addressed to a name I didn't recognize.

As I read them, I realized they weren't letters—they were "future memories." ​A father,

knowing he had a terminal illness, had written to his infant daughter for every major

milestone he knew he’d miss. There was a letter for her 10th birthday, her first heartbreak,