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The body grows blunt, battered by stony rooms and the sharp revolutions of time; hearing dissolves into murmur, sight fades to shadow, and feeling hardens into numbness. Yet it is still compelled to live, still asked to tend itself and those around it, though the stones grow heavier to bear, though the wound spreads wider with each step. From the narrowest cracks, small chambers of care begin to bloom, sometimes from within a weary body, sometimes from the grasp of another who refuses to let us fall. Amid the overlapping traffic of daily life, a question lingers: does it still matter to remain attuned, to be present for whom, and what remains when attunement is left to die?