**The Flower That Never Faded**
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 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 walked a boy of just twelve, thin, with a quiet gaze and a steady pace for his age. His name was Thomas Whitmore.
His destination was always the same: Autumn Light Care Home, an old cream-coloured building with large windows and a garden full of hydrangeas. Not a single day passed without him stepping through its rusted gate after school.
He entered slowly, greeting everyoneMrs. Evelyn, knitting on the bench by the door; Mr. George, who always asked for a sweet; and the staff, who watched him with fondness. They knew Thomas didnt come out of obligation but because of a commitment few understood.
He climbed to the second floor, down the corridor to room 214. There waited Mrs. Clara Whitmore, an elderly woman with hair as white as salt and a gaze sometimes distant, sometimes bright with life.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Clara,” hed say, setting his bag on a chair. “Heres your favourite flower.”
“And who are you, dear?” shed often ask with a soft smile.
“Just a friend,” hed reply.
Mrs. Clara had once been a literature teacherelegant, sharp-witted. But Alzheimers had slowly stolen pieces of her memory. For her, days repeated, and faces blurred. Yet when Thomas was there, a spark flickered in her eyes.
For months, he read her poems by Wordsworth and stories by Dickens. Sometimes he painted her nails peach, other times he carefully braided her hair. Shed laugh at his jokes, cry quietly when something touched her, or mistake him for a sweetheart from her youth.
The staff said Thomas had an old soul in a young body. He didnt come out of charity or school assignmentshe came because he wanted to.
“That boy has a heart of gold,” Nurse Margaret, the longest-serving at the home, often murmured.
**The Secret No One Knew**
In all the time he visited, Thomas never told them he wasnt just a “friend” to Mrs. Clara. He was her grandson. Her only one.
The story was sad: when Claras memory began to fade, her only sonThomass fatherdecided to place her in the home. At first, he visited often, but then the visits grew sparse until one day, they stopped. He said seeing her like that hurt too much. Thomas, however, couldnt bear to leave her alone.
At home, his father avoided speaking of her. “Shes not the same woman,” hed say coldly. “Its best she stays there.”
But for Thomas, she was still his grandmother. Even if she didnt remember his name, even if she called him “William” or “Jonathan,” he knew that somewhere in her mind, love remained.
**The Confession**
One winters day, as he combed her hair by the window, Clara fixed her eyes on him. For a moment, they seemed to recognize him.
“You have my sons eyes,” she whispered.
Thomas smiled. “Perhaps fate lent them to me.”
She lowered her voice like sharing a secret. “My son left when I began to forget said I wasnt his mother anymore.”
It hurt, but Thomas didnt argue. He squeezed her hand. “Sometimes, when memory goes, people do too. But not everyone forgets.”
She looked at him as if those words brought peace, then drifted back into her thoughts.
**The Last Summer**
That year, Clara grew weaker. Her good days became rare, and some days she couldnt rise from bed. Thomas still visited, even if just to read while she slept or leave flowers on her nightstand.
One afternoon, the homes doctor spoke to him. “Son, your grandmother is very frail. She may not see winter.”
Thomas bowed his head but didnt cry. Hed known this day would come.
On her last birthday, he arrived with a full bouquet of wildflowers. The room smelled of the countryside. She looked at him and, with a clarity she hadnt shown in months, 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 wildflower, withered but unbroken, as if clinging to its petals until she was gone.
The funeral was simple. Few attendedold colleagues, the care home staff and Thomas. His father arrived at the last moment, solemn, dry-eyed.
Nurse Margaret, moved, approached Thomas. “Son, why did you never stop coming?”
He met her gaze, red-eyed. “Because she was my grandmother. Everyone left when she fell ill. I didnt. Even if she didnt know who I was.”
His father, overhearing, hung his head in shame. He said nothing, but after the service, he placed a hand on Thomass shoulder. “You did what I couldnt,” he murmured. “Thank you.”
**Epilogue**
Years passed. Thomas grew up, finished university, and became a writer. His first book was titled *The Flower That Never Faded*, dedicated to Mrs. Claras memory.
In the dedication, he wrote: *”To my grandmother, who taught me that family isnt bound by memory but by the heart.”*
On the cover, an illustration of a wildflowerjust like the ones he carried to room 214.
And so, though Alzheimers erased names and dates, it couldnt erase what mattered most: the love that remains when all else is gone.
