Grandma’s biscuit tin sat on the top shelf of her kitchen cabinet for as long as I could remember. It was an old, dented tin with faded flowers on the lid, and despite its original purpose, it never once held biscuits. Inside was her sewing kit: spools of thread in every shade imaginable, buttons that no longer matched anything, bent needles, and a measuring tape that had lost most of its markings. We used to joke about it, asking if maybe one day cookies would magically appear inside. Grandma would smile but always slide the tin back into place with a seriousness that made it clear it mattered more than it seemed. To her, it wasn’t clutter—it was history.
After she passed away, the house felt strangely hollow, as if her presence had been stitched into the walls and suddenly unraveled. When it came time to divide her belongings, no one wanted the old biscuit tin. I took it home almost absentmindedly, placing it on a shelf in my apartment. It became a quiet reminder of her—a small, ordinary object that carried comfort just by existing nearby. I never opened it. Somehow, leaving it untouched felt like a form of respect, as though opening it might disturb something carefully preserved.
