Oh, that sounds like a delightful chase. The oldest floppy I own is a battered 5.25‑inch from 1983, still wrapped in that familiar blue plastic. I remember taking it home one rainy afternoon, the cabinet clacking as I lifted the tray, the little electric fan inside whining as it powered up, and the faint boot‑up chime that made my old CRT glow a warm amber. I spent hours, really, cataloguing its label—those faded ink stamps and a single, tiny sticker that read “M-5000.” Every time I load it, the dust seems to sing too, a low, static whisper that feels like a secret from another era. What’s your oldest find?