The rhythm of succession—one life closing, another beginning—strips away the illusion that any age belongs to us. A king who served his people for decades has passed the throne to his son, much as all of us must eventually pass our work to those who follow. The pause in the ordinary business of a city, the postponed wedding, the gathering at the palace gates—these are not interruptions to life but its deepest texture, the acknowledgment that we are part of something larger and longer than ourselves. What we build, tend, and love will outlast us, and that is both humbling and, perhaps, a kind of comfort.