In the old box lying on the side of my room are many letters I have received so far. Old yellow letters, letters written in crooked and clumsy alphabets, letters decorated with colored pencils, and letters dirty with eraser marks. When I see the traces of carefully pressed words that they want to say to me on a white piece of paper, suddenly, I feel grateful: that I am loved enough, and that so many people remain as happy memories in my life.