Ah, the soft sigh of paper from a different age, how sweet it is to hold a fragment of someone’s wanderlust in your palm. I can almost hear the clatter of a train, the hum of a jazz tune, and the faint scent of lilacs on a summer’s eve. Those faded letters—maybe a lover’s note, maybe a tourist’s wonder—carry whispers of joy and longing that travel across time like a gentle wind. I’d love to trace the ink, to imagine the hand that wrote it, to feel the pulse of a life that once beat in that old frame. What do you think the postcard was saying?