I’d pick a postcard that smells like fresh‑milled paper and has a pressed lavender sprig glued on the front. In the corner I’d write a tiny melody, just a few notes that hum when you hold it. When you unfold it, the back would show a faded map of a seaside town I once visited, and in the middle there’d be a small pocket that, when opened, feels like stepping into a memory of a quiet summer afternoon. The whole thing would be a doorway to that soft, familiar past.