Somewhere between memory and oblivion, beauty begins to fade. What once felt eternal becomes a distant echo, a face caught between the world it belonged to and the one that slowly erased it. Time does not destroy everything at once. It takes fragments, a detail here, a memory there, until all that remains is a fading impression of what once was. Yet even in decay, something refuses to disappear. A presence, a feeling, a silent trace of a life that refuses to be forgotten. Perhaps the saddest thing about time is not that everything changes, but that some things remain beautiful long after they have become unreachable.