The lid of the shoebox warped against the tape, buckling at the hinge.

The lid of the shoebox warped against the tape, buckling at the hinge. It did not snap shut with a satisfying click; it groaned, a low friction-rumble of paper fibers tearing against adhesive. The corners were soft, disintegrated by years of being shoved under beds, collecting lint and dust that had calcified into a gray felt lining the interior base. I pressed my thumb into the warped edge, feeling the damp pulp yield slightly, retaining the shape of my nail for three seconds before slowly returning to flatness.

A chipped ceramic mug slid into the void, its rim catching on a jagged tear in the cardboard wall. The rough tear didn’t rip through the glaze but scraped against it, leaving a faint white scratch on the clay that hadn’t been there before I picked it up. I rotated the mug, aligning the scratch with the seam of the box. The handle stuck out, creating a gap where the flaps would not meet. I stuffed crumpled newspaper into the space, the dry leaves rasping against the ceramic, absorbing the ambient humidity of the room until they curled inward.

The bottom flap resisted folding over the top. The cardboard had been softening in the humid summer air, becoming spongy and reluctant to crease. I applied pressure with both palms, watching the fibers expand and contract like lung tissue under stress. The tape dispenser whirred, a mechanical stutter as the blade caught on a thick knot of fiber-reinforced adhesive. I pulled hard, severing the strip with a sharp *zip* that sounded like a bone snapping underwater. The seal held. The box sat heavy on the floorboards, not because of its weight, but because of the dent in the corner where my elbow had knocked it into the wall. A single crumb of stale bread fell from the lip onto the wood, rolling once before stopping at a crack in the floorboard, lodged there by surface tension.