When I was young, birthdays felt like the brightest days of the year.
Friends arrived with cheerful boxes, my parents baked a cake, and I always waited eagerly for the surprises planned for me. Yet my grandma’s gift stood apart — not because it dazzled, but because it appeared so plain.
Year after year, she offered me a simple old postcard. Some showed oceans, others displayed hills or busy streets, their corners worn by age. At first, I accepted them politely, but as I matured, I couldn’t help but ask myself: Why postcards? I didn’t realize that hidden inside those modest presents was a secret that would take me decades to uncover.
