Most of these dusty old journals were full of old stories I had written when I was younger. None of them were all that important, but I still liked to look through them every couple of years. That's the only reason I kept them. Heck, half of them weren't even finished stories.
I was just placing them in a box, to make room on my shelves in the living room. It was time to given them a new home in the garage, since I didn't read them very often anymore. As I placed them in there that day, I pictured a future son or daughter stumbling upon them and using them the way I should have.