Existimus.
Death is unfathomable, yet inevitable. Everyone must eventually perish into nothing, hoping they have left traces of themselves behind — in memories, in places they once frequented, in the lives they once touched.
It is an undeniable human instinct to let someone know that they were here, that they existed, that they lived. Every little thing done seems to scream against oblivion: proof that there was once someone who laughed, loved, survived, and kept moving forward despite everything that tried to halt them.
Perhaps that is why humans leave mementos behind. A scratch on a tree trunk, a handprint pressed into stone, a scribbled name in the corner of a page — small proofs of existence. Tiny rebellions against disappearance.
Something that says: someone stood here before you. Someone lived. Someone endured.
Maybe that is all humanity has ever wanted — not immortality, but remembrance. To plant their feet into the soil that rooted and nurtured them, and leave behind something that whispers, long after they are gone, that they were once alive.