I forged two postcards from my best friend to myself three years ago, and last week he "remembered" writing them

My best friend has sent me a handwritten postcard from every trip he's taken since college. It's an eight-year tradition and I keep all of them in a tin box on my bookshelf. Three years ago he spent a month backpacking through Japan. When he got back, he asked if I liked the two cards he sent from Kyoto. I hadn't reiceived anything; our local post office was notorious for misplacing mail that summer. When I saw the look of genuine disappointment on his face, I panicked and lied, saying they must just be running slow. A month later, when they clearly weren't coming, I felt so guilty that I went on eBay, bought two vintage tourist postcards of Kyoto from the 90s, scribbled a short greeting in shaky handwriting immitating his, and smudged the ink to look weathered. I quietly slipped them into the tin. Last weekend he was over for beer, opened the tin to browse through the cards, pulled them out, and said: "Man, sitting by that temple writing these was the most peaceful part of that trip." I am taking this secret to the grave.