The address book sits open on the kitchen table, spine cracked from years of December use. Pencil updates crowd the margins—new street numbers, a crossed-out name with no explanation, a phone number scribbled sideways where there was no room.

December means pulling out the box of cards from the hall closet. The ones left over from last year, plus the new box you bought because you forgot about the leftovers. The envelopes that stick together slightly.

An AI could draft a tidy summary of your year in three paragraphs. It wouldn’t know to add “Hope the lilacs bloomed well this spring” for your aunt in Saskatoon, or that your cousin’s son just started guitar, so you mention the old Yamaha in your basement. It doesn’t know to add the extra line at the bottom of certain cards.

By the third card, your handwriting starts to cramp. The pen skips on the glossy surface and you have to go over the letters twice. Your thumb leaves a small smudge on the corner of the envelope.

The mailbox slot is cold against your fingers. Each card makes a quiet sound as it drops. You let the slot close with its small metallic click.

Two sentences is enough. The ink stain on the side of your hand lasts until evening.