If your life is a hotel, the people who have stopped and rested in your life will be the poets and painters who passed by you. They wrote poems and paintings for you and finally returned home. And you are yellowed, old and in ruins.
No matter how you define life, it will eventually return to dust, rain and dew. Those who have appeared in your world, no matter whether they can accompany you to the end, you will be lonely when they leave. After all, they are just your passers-by.
The only proof is that they were here before and you existed.
Conception: