It was an old coffee tin with rust covering most of it.
He sat on the bed and opened it to find yellowing pages covered in an unintelligible scrawl. They were so old that they were disintegrating along the creases. He couldn’t understand what was stranger; the fact that she had kept them for so long or that someone had spent so much time writing them.
“What’s this?” He asked her as she entered the room.
“They’re letters your grandfather wrote to me.”
“Why didn’t he just type them?”
She laughed and ruffled the hair on her grandson’s teenage head.