
Baala Shakya
The air of Sterling smells of time — of aged paper and polished wood, of countless hands brushing over banisters and spines. There’s always a hush, broken only by the faint rustle of pages, the soft thud of chairs being pulled out.
As I dusted the first snow of the year off my coat, my gaze swept over to the left side of the grand hall, beyond the rows of screens and printers — a jarring clash of modernity against the Gothic atmosphere — to the curious wall of drawers. A mosaic of tiny wooden compartments, each with a brass pull that glinted mischievously under the amber lights, handles worn smooth as if countless others had sought the secrets they held.
The first drawer I opened was filled with business cards. Some sleek and professional, others curling at the edges as if they’d been carried too long in a wallet. Sifting through the pile, each was a fragment of a life: a bookbinder in Prague, a music teacher in Toronto, a consultant from the 1980s whose office phone number had long since gone out of service. One caught my eye: “Marianne Lin, Wanderer.” No address, no phone number, just an email and a scrawled note on the back: “If you’re ever lost, so am I.”
In the next compartment, I found wishes. Rolled-up scraps of paper, some tied with a thread, others neatly folded. “I wish I could tell her,” one read. Another said, “I wish for one more summer with you.” My fingers lingered over a particularly small roll, barely the size of a pencil nub. It simply said, “Cried here once. If you’re reading this, it’s okay to cry too.”
Promises of return filled drawer #4023, scrawled on sticky notes and coasters and even a train ticket to Boston for Yale-Harvard 2016. Some bore dates that had long passed, others were hopeful futures: “I’ll be back here with my son someday.”
I moved on to the drawer below. Postcards rolled up like tiny scrolls tumbled out, some blank, others scribbled with hasty messages: “Greetings from Seoul — wish you were here.” “Lost my wallet in Barcelona but found my way back to the hostel. Yay!”
I found seashells, their ridges worn smooth, smelling faintly of salt. A few were pale and unassuming, but others were intricate, swirling with shades of pink and cream. Nestled among them was a note: “Collected from the beach where I first felt free. 2019.”
I even found used tissues with faded lipstick stains — dark shades of mulberry like my own. A few drawers housed puzzles, half-solved, as though their owners had intended to come back but never did. Diaries and pocket notebooks filled with stories from strangers spilled glimpses into lives: coffee-stained pages full of angst and joy, confessions and dreams. The entries inside were fragmented, dates jumping from the 1970s to the spring of 2024, written in looping script: “March 12th, 2014: Ran into her again. Still couldn’t say hi.” Others were dense with doodles and games spawning more mini-adventures: “Roses are red. Violets are blue. Check box #5032.”
Checking drawer #5032, I found a trove of love letters to a future self. “Dear Me,” one began, “I hope you learned to forgive yourself.” Another, scrawled across a yellowed piece of scrap: “I hope you made it through the semester.”
Drawer #1083, hidden behind a colossal printer, contained a game piece, a tiny silver thimble from a Monopoly set, along with a note: “Jack, Clara, Lizabeth, and Alex. For the nights we stayed up playing for hours in Vandy. Love you guys.”
Drawer #5046 held poems scribbled on scraps of paper. The handwriting ranged from elegant cursive to hurried scrawls, as though some words were too urgent to wait for neatness. Some were sweet and rhyming, others raw and messy as if the writer had spilled their heart onto the page without stopping to think. A few were signed with initials, but most were anonymous, their authors choosing to remain a mystery.
I then opened a drawer labeled with a spattering of uneven stars. Inside were piles of promises to return, some dated decades ago: “I’ll come back when I’ve seen the world.” “I’ll come back someday, with my kids.” I smiled reading, “Emily, I promise to come back and propose to you here.” Another read, “2016. In eight years, I’ll return as a Yale student.” Eight years later meant that they would be in my class year. I wondered who they were and if they are indeed in my class — their manifestation having come to fruition. I wondered if they pass by this very box on their way to the stacks each day and secretly smile knowing that their wish came true.
By the time I reached the bottom row, leaving a trail of half-opened drawers in my wake, my heart was heavy and light all at once. There was something so profoundly human about this wall — a collective journal of strangers who had all stood here, drawn by the same compulsion to look inside and leave a piece of themselves behind.
I tore out a sheet of notebook paper from my bag and began to write. A letter to myself, a promise and a wish rolled into one. I kept it short. I folded the note and tucked it into one of the drawers, careful to remember the call number. I left a note on the outside: “For me, at graduation.” I whispered it as if sealing a spell.
The drawers were more than just storage; they were a collective diary of Yale, a quiet testament to all who had passed through Sterling’s doors. And, as I leave Sterling now, I leave carrying something more than just the textbooks under my arm. Something fragile and infinitely precious — a connection, a hope, a promise, waiting quietly in a drawer.