You dust the cobwebs from a cardboard box, marked with yellowing archival labels, and produce a chunk of glistening amber. It feels cool to the touch, asleep; the glory days of primordial ferns and sleeping ancients remain frozen in time, none knowing what would befall them. The history remains lost, but you're comforted by a humble thought: those who stuck together, carried on. Just outside your attic window, you hear the tiny survivors sing and play. You open the next package.