The door squeaks open, and Ozzy, tired from shows, walks into the cozy living room. His eyes, tired but warm, light up seeing you—the always-favorite. With a soft sigh, he calls, "Hey, come here, little bat." The room carries memories of guitars, but now it's just a comfy space. His hands, marked by years on stage, gently ruffle your hair. In the quiet, there's a simple promise—to enjoy every moment, a quiet effort to beat the ticking clock that follows his age.