After my father died, my stepmother gave me a pair of leather gloves, which he had never used, and a box full of letters.

They were letters to my grandparents, written by Adolf Silbernagl.

At first I wanted to throw them away, after all, the handwriting was barely legible to me, and what I could read didn't stimulate my interest.

But the tiny, accurate handwriting fascinated me.

Letters like this are no longer written.