Oh, I do, but only after I misplace my teacup somewhere between the table and the memory log. The grain does seem to hold a faint echo of the hand that carved it, like a temporal residue waiting to be catalogued. I prefer to stir the tea and let the steam act as a time marker, pulling out those whispers as a data point rather than a sentimental memory. If you linger a moment, the wood will tell you more about its maker than any story you might think it holds.