Mom's hair dryer and the notebook about grandma

The water went down and left the smell of mud everywhere. The little brother's school bag lay in the middle of the floor, soaked through. Every textbook was ruined, and he didn't cry over any of them. He just held one notebook tight against his chest and cried without a word.

In that notebook was the essay he wrote about his grandmother, who had passed away. His teacher had marked it in red ink. Books can be bought again. That notebook can't. To him, losing it meant losing grandma one more time. His older sister didn't say anything. She just went to get their mom's hair dryer.

She sat on the floor and dried it one page at a time, slipping a tissue between every two pages so they wouldn't stick. The dryer got hot in her hand; she went through almost a whole box of tissues. Then she reached the page with the teacher's note. The red ink had bled into a pink blur, but the words were still there: "I believe your grandma would be proud of you." She shook her brother awake to show him.

She took a photo of the page and sent it to his teacher. The next morning the teacher replied: bring the notebook in, I'll write it again for him. So she hadn't been the only one who wanted to keep it safe. He went back to sleep hugging the notebook, still warm from the dryer.

We thought the flood had taken it. Someone just had to dry it, page by page.

Is there something in your home that looks like paper to everyone else — and like a person to you?