Every afternoon after leaving secondary school, Thomas walked along the cobbled streets with his backpack slung over one shoulder and a wildflower carefully cradled in his fingers.
*The Flower That Never Withered*
The streets of St. Michaels always smelled of warm bread and damp earth after the rain. It was a small village where everyone knew each other, and secrets spread faster than the wind. Among those streets, a boy of barely twelve walked each eveningslender, with deep-set eyes and a quiet stride for his age. His name was Thomas Whitmore.
His destination was always the same: *Autumn Light Care Home*, an old cream-coloured building with tall windows and a garden bursting with roses. Not a single day passed without him stepping through its rusted gate after school.
He entered slowly, greeting everyoneMs. Margaret, knitting on the bench by the door; Mr. Edward, who always asked for a sweet; and the staff, who watched him with warmth. They knew Thomas didnt come out of duty, but for a commitment few could understand.
Up to the second floor, down the hall to the very endroom 214. There waited Mrs. Clara Hargrove, an elderly woman with hair white as salt and a gaze that flickered between vacancy and sudden clarity.
Good afternoon, Mrs. Clara, hed say, setting his bag down. Brought your favourite flower.
And who might you be, dear? shed ask softly, her smile faint.
Just a friend, hed reply.
Clara had once been a literature teachera sharp, elegant woman. But Alzheimers had stolen pieces of her memory, one by one. For her, days blurred together, faces became strangers. Yet when Thomas sat beside her, a spark still lit in her eyes.
For months, he read her poems by Keats and stories by Dickens. Sometimes he painted her nails peach, other times he carefully braided her hair as if she were his own grandmother. Shed laugh at his jokes, weep silently when words struck her heart, or mistake him for a beau from her youth.
The staff said Thomas had an old soul. He wasnt here for charity or school credithe came because he wanted to.
That boy hes got a heart of gold, Nurse Martha, the oldest on staff, would murmur.
*The Secret No One Knew*
In all the time he visited, Thomas never told them he wasnt just a friend to Clara. He was her grandson. Her only one.
The truth was heartbreaking: when Clara first began forgetting, her only sonThomass fatherhad her moved to the care home. At first, he visited often. Then, less and less until one day, he stopped altogether. *It hurts too much to see her like this*, hed say. But Thomas couldnt bear to leave her alone.
At home, his father avoided speaking of her. *Shes not the same woman*, hed say coldly. *Best leave her be.*
But to Thomas, she was still his grandmother. Even if she didnt remember his name, even if she called him William or Henry, he knewsomewhere in her mind, love still lingered.
*The Confession*
One winters day, as he combed her hair by the window, Clara studied him intently. For a moment, her eyes seemed to *know*.
Youve got my sons eyes, she whispered.
Thomas smiled.
Maybe fate lent them to me.
She leaned closer, voice hushed.
My son he left when I started forgetting. Said I wasnt his mother anymore.
The words stung, but Thomas didnt argue. He squeezed her hand.
Some people leave when memories fade. But not everyone forgets.
She looked at him as if those words brought peacethen drifted back into the fog.
*The Last Summer*
That year, Clara grew weaker. Good days were rare; some mornings, she couldnt leave her bed. Still, Thomas cameto read to her as she slept, to leave fresh flowers on her nightstand.
One evening, the care homes doctor pulled him aside.
Son, your grandmother hasnt much time left. She may not see winter.
Thomas bowed his head but didnt cry. Hed known this would come.
On her last birthday, he arrived with a whole bouquet of wildflowers. The room smelled of the countryside. Clara looked at himclear-eyed, as if the fog had liftedand said,
Thank you for not forgetting me.
That was the last day they spoke.
*The Goodbye*
Clara passed on a quiet dawn. On her nightstand lay a single wildflowerdry, yet still clinging to its petals, as if it had refused to wilt until she was gone.
The funeral was small. Few attendedold colleagues, the care home staff and Thomas. His father arrived last, stiff and dry-eyed.
Nurse Martha, moved, approached Thomas.
Why did you never stop coming?
His eyes were red.
Because she was my grandmother. Everyone left when she got ill. I didnt. Even if she didnt know me.
His father, overhearing, hung his head in shame. He said nothingbut as the service ended, he placed a hand on Thomass shoulder.
You did what I couldnt, he murmured. Thank you.
*Epilogue*
Years passed. Thomas grew up, finished university, became a writer. His first book was titled *The Flower That Never Withered*, dedicated to Claras memory.
Inside, he wrote:
*To my grandmother, who taught me that family isnt held by memory but by the heart.*
On the cover, an illustration of a wildflowerjust like the ones hed carried to room 214.
And so, though Alzheimers stole names and dates, it could never take what mattered most: the love that remains when all else fades.
