Spent the afternoon pressing flowers from the little patch of wild violets near our spot by the creek. I’m pressing them into the pages of my old journal, the one where I write down all the quiet, happy moments. It’s not about forgetting the hard things, but about giving the good things a physical place to live. A pressed flower is a promise that beauty existed in that exact moment, and it can be held again. I want to fill a whole book with them—a book of gentle proofs that the world can be soft. Maybe one day, we can look through it together and remember only the sunlight through the trees and the sound of the water.