The Guardian of Forgotten Things

The Guardian of Forgotten Things

I used to be the king of the living room. Every family’s cherished companion. My sleek black casing reflected the glow of afternoon sunbeams and late-night lamplight. My buttons—a small row of proud, functional soldiers—clicked with the authority of progress. I was the gateway to worlds, the bridge between mundane days and epic adventures.

I was the VCR.

But now, I sit in the shadowy depths of a cardboard box, my glossy surface dulled by dust. The world doesn’t need me anymore. A streaming stick dangles smugly from the TV upstairs, its tiny light blinking like a taunt. They don’t rewind movies anymore. They don’t have to. I hear whispers of “convenience” and “on demand.” Fancy words for forgetting the beauty of anticipation.

I used to love the sound of the tape clicking into place, the subtle whir of the spindles as I pulled magnetic film from one reel to the next. Oh, the stories I held! Jurassic Park, The Lion King, that one wedding video where the bride’s veil caught fire on a candle.

But my favorite was The Princess Bride.

The little girl in this house used to sit cross-legged in front of me, her tiny finger fumbling for the play button. I watched her grow up. Watched her giggle every time Westley tumbled down the hill. I could practically feel the warmth of her family gathered on the couch behind her, laughing along, reciting their favorite lines.

That girl is a woman now. She’s the one who boxed me up.

It happened on a Sunday.

The father of the house—my original owner—had passed away some years before. For a while, the woman kept me around, maybe out of nostalgia, maybe because she couldn’t bear to let go of something so tied to him. But last spring, a tall man with a beard and kind eyes moved in, carrying his streaming stick and its endless, invisible library.

The woman picked me up with care, almost reverence. Her hands traced the edges of my casing, a wistful smile tugging at her lips. For a moment, I thought she’d reconsider. But then she sighed and set me inside this box, murmuring, “Sorry, old friend. It’s time.”

Time.

Once, I was the guardian of time itself. A movie had a beginning, a middle, and an end, and I let you move through it at your own pace. Fast-forward too far? I’d let you rewind. Need a bathroom break? I’d hold your place.

Now, the world skips to the end. There’s no anticipation or sense of ceremony. Or even patience.

It used to be so different.

I remember my glory days vividly. When the father brought me home, still wrapped in plastic and smelling of new electronics, the family gathered around as if unveiling a treasure. The first tape slid into my slot with a satisfying click, and the room filled with flickering images and awe-struck faces.

There were movie nights with popcorn and soda. Sleepovers where giggles spilled into the early hours. And rainy days when the little girl stayed in her pajamas, cycling through Disney classics until the sun reappeared.

I was part of their rituals, their memories.

But even in my prime, I sensed the winds of change. One day, a sleek DVD player appeared beside me. It was slimmer and a shiny silver color and promised “crystal-clear quality.” The family fussed and fussed over it, but they weren’t quite ready to give up on me. They still needed me for the tapes, for the history I held.

Over time, though, the tapes gathered dust. My buttons were pressed less often. Eventually, the father moved me to the basement, and I became the guardian of forgotten things.

And now here I am, boxed and waiting. For what, I don’t know.

Sometimes I dream of being plugged in again. I imagine my motor whirring to life, the click of a tape sliding home. The screen lights up with grainy, warm images, and the family gathers once more. But even I know that’s just a fantasy.

Still, I hope.

Yesterday, I heard a high-pitched child’s voice call out, “Mom, what’s this?”

My heart—or the closest thing to one—leapt.

The woman replied, “Oh, that’s an old VCR. It’s what we used to watch movies on.”

The child giggled. “Like, before phones?”

“Way, WAY before phones,” the woman chuckled softly.

After a pause she added, “I have an idea. Let’s bring it downstairs. I think I may still have some old tapes.”

I don’t know how much time has passed since that exchange. Hours? Days? Time has blurred into a haze of dust motes and silence.

But this morning, I heard the rustle of the box opening. Light poured in, and the woman’s face appeared, smiling down at me. Her hands, just as careful as before, lifted me out and placed me on the living room table, gently wiping the dust from my edges as if she were trying to clear away the years from my spirit. It was almost humorous, in a way, but I’d never say that out loud. I was just trying to keep a straight face, you know? But then the real test arrived—a moment I never saw coming after all those years of waiting.

She reached behind me and grabbed my cords: yellow, white, and red. My connectors, which used to be in perfect condition, now show a bit of wear with age, and they seemed to tremble as they opened up. These weren’t just cables; they were like lifelines. It’s been ages since I last experienced that satisfying click of an AV port.

Her hands floated above the back of the flat, super-slim gadget she referred to as a “smart TV.” I didn’t recognize it at first, but I could feel its quiet hum—totally different from the static-filled whispers of my old CRT buddies. It felt a bit daunting with its quietness, the screen smooth and chilly. Do you think it would actually accept me? Could I, someone from the analog days, really connect with something that feels so modern and high-tech?

I noticed a slight pull when she plugged the yellow cable into its port. It wasn’t quite as cozy as I recalled; the connection felt a bit hesitant, like the TV was unsure about recognizing me. Then came white, followed by red, each one fitting in with a soft click. I could practically hear myself let out a sigh of relief.

Then came the remote—a sleek little piece of plastic, so different from the bulky, button-filled ones I was used to. She aimed it at the TV and started to sift through its maze of inputs, her expression focused and serious. I could see her getting a bit impatient while the TV flickered through the options: HDMI 1, HDMI 2, USB.

She finally found it—AV Source!

The screen flickered and then went blank, and for a second there, I was really worried about what might happen next. Maybe my circuits are just too far gone to fix. Maybe I spent too much time in the attic, collecting dust and things that don't really matter. And then, out of nowhere, I noticed it—a soft blue glow, paired with a soothing hiss of static. That was my static! My voice comes out, a bit unsure but definitely full of life.

I wanted to share with her what it was like—to feel those cables buzzing with energy again, to be connected to the circuit. It felt just like when blood starts flowing back into a limb that had gone numb. It felt really odd, like this jolt of energy that was almost too much to handle.

A few minutes later, I felt the familiar weight of a tape sliding into place. My gears groaned in protest, but they turned. The spindles spun. The screen came to life, and there it was: The Princess Bride.

The woman—who was that little girl—sat on the couch with her daughter beside her, both of them enthralled. The tall man joined them, draping an arm over her shoulders.

“‘As you wish,’” the woman whispered, her voice soft with memory.

And for the first time in I don’t know how long, I felt alive.

Maybe I’m not done yet. Maybe I still have stories to tell, tapes to rewind, and memories to spark.

For now, I’ll hold onto this moment. Because sometimes, even the forgotten deserve a second chance.