The year fades into the past, slipping quietly into the vault of memories. It becomes another fragment—neither wholly forgotten nor entirely clear—just a mix of fleeting smiles, unshed tears, and echoes of conversations long ended. Each moment, once vivid, now softens into a distant haze, a reminder of choices made and paths not taken. The year is no longer a span of time but a feeling, a whisper of what was, etched into the fabric of who you are, waiting to resurface when the world grows still.