Time sleeps in the papers' rustling. While reading the forces letters, we wake them, their stories and concerns fall into our hands, heavily weighing on them for a while. They won't let go of us. Letter for letter, sign for sign we grope our way through this rough terrain of worries and hardships. We recover treasures, we testify to what the addresses were never able to read, being dead perhaps or otherwise unreachable for the senders at home, in the trenches. For hours we drown in those leaves of time, rustling and listening for history's whisper. A quiet, deeply imprinted miracle.