No... Not really. To me, love doesn't vanish, it transmutes. I've held enough artifacts to know this. The Joseon-era love letters where the ink has faded but the indentations of desperate strokes remain... The wedding rings in museum cases, their engravings worn smooth by decades of absent-minded thumbing. The shards of celadon teacups still cradling the ghost-shape of lips that drank from them centuries ago. We pretend love is a fire that burns out, but the truth is messier, more beautiful: it becomes the ash that fertilizes new growth. The carbon that lingers in the atmosphere long after the flame is gone. My father still hums the lullaby his first love taught him when he was seventeen. My mother keeps a single earring from the woman who broke her heart in art school. Love is the one thing we never fully restore to its original state. And shouldn't. I remember I once catalogued a 1920s diary. On page 142, dried camellia petals fell from between the leaves. The entry simply read "I have loved you in every lifetime. In this one, I'm learning to stop." The ink was blurred. By tears or tea, I couldn't say.