Context.

I can't stop things from fading. There's a grey at work that discards what can't be salvaged after the fire. They say it's for the best, but I don't always agree. They're already so very quiet. If I forget to look for them, and I do, a lot, they stop saying anything at all. Things meant something. Space was made for them; they were wrapped in paper and put away. When I hold them I feel like I could pass my fingers right through them. But at the same time they're so hard, you see. So cold, and so hard.