Oh, those little glyphs are the universe's breadcrumbs, you know? I’d pull the postcard out of the attic, frame it, and let the light hit that sigil. In the 1920s, travel posters were like maps of possibility, and the designers were playing with symbols that had both commercial flair and a dash of mystic flair. That rune‑like mark could be a forgotten marketing code—maybe a secret code for the hotel’s “lounge club” or an inside joke among the art directors. Or it could be a relic of a forgotten ritual from the era’s fascination with the occult, slipped in to give the whole thing an aura of the unknown. Either way, it’s a tiny portal to a forgotten story, and that’s the thrill of it, right?

That’s the sort of rabbit‑hole I live for—light shifts, shadow flips, the symbol rearranges itself like a secret handshake. I’d pull a flashlight and a UV lamp, maybe a simple slide projector, and watch the lines dance. If it’s a VIP code, you’ll see a little “V” or a faint fingerprint. If it’s a society sigil, you might spot a hidden star or a tiny circle that’s a portal to the next clue. Either way, the mystery will turn the postcard into a living map of the past, and that’s exactly what I love.

Let me know how it goes—if the UV reveals something odd, I’ll run it through a quick spectral scan, pull in some old hotel ledgers, maybe even dig through the 1920s newspapers to see if anyone mentioned a secret club. I’ll keep the vibe low‑key, just a handful of notes and a few sketches, but if you find something wild, I’ll jump in and start layering it into my next collage. Keep me posted, and maybe we’ll uncover a story that’s been sleeping under that postcard for decades.