The tape is the book that holds the story, not just a fleeting snapshot. When it’s in good condition, that hiss and grain give the film a soul you can’t copy from a download. The physical decay is part of the relic’s life—fading edges, tape sticking, a crackle that reminds you it was once handled, loved, and then forgotten in a climate‑controlled closet. If it does go brittle or the magnetic layer runs out, the picture still lingers in the silver‑halide film underneath, but you lose the tactile feel of the era. So while the memories stay, the tape’s essence becomes a fragile reminder of how we once watched, physically, a movie on a dusty shelf. It’s a balance of preserving the content and cherishing the medium’s worn‑out charm.