[ The faint smile fades. His gaze goes dark and flat, like a television uplugged. But it's not to wall her off. It's to keep something in himself locked in. ]

It's a fact. Nothing lasts for long. [ His focus goes to his own hands. The way they clench and unclench, clean compared to the days where there's sauce or flour between the webs of his fingers. ] Even the person you think you are -- the concept evolves as you grow older. Your feelings for places or people change with it. Sometimes they stay. Often they fade completely. It's a process that doesn't stop until you're dead.