Every afternoon, after school ended, Tomás walked the cobblestone lanes with his backpack slung over one shoulder and a carefully cradled wildflower pressed between his fingers.
The flower that never withered
The streets of SanMiguel always smelled of fresh bread and damp earth after a rain. It was a tiny town where everyone knew each other and rumors spread faster than the wind. Amid those alleys, a twelveyearold boy made his way each day, his pack on one shoulder and a wild blossom clutched in his hand. His name was Tomás Aguilar, a lanky youngster with deep eyes and a calm stride for his age.
His destination was always the same: the Luz de Otoño Home, an old creampainted building with large windows and a garden full of bougainvilleas. No day passed without him slipping through the rusty gate after school.
He entered slowly, greeting everyone: Señora Lupita, who was knitting on the porch bench; Señor Raúl, who always asked for a candy; and the staff, who looked at him with tenderness. They all knew Tomás wasnt there out of obligation, but because of a commitment that few could understand.
He climbed to the second floor, walked down the far hallway to room214. There waited DoñaClara Villaseñor, an elderly woman with hair white as salt and a gaze that shifted between absent and lively.
Good afternoon, DoñaClara, he said, setting his backpack on a chair. Heres your favorite flower.
And who might you be, dear? she asked almost every time, smiling softly.
Just a friend, he replied.
DoñaClara had once taught literature, an elegant woman with a strong character. Alzheimers disease had been stealing pieces of her memory piece by piece. For her, days blended together and faces became strangers. Yet whenever Tomás was there, a spark seemed to light up her eyes.
For months he read her poems by JaimeSabines and stories by JuanRulfo. Sometimes he painted her nails peachcolored, other times he gently brushed her hair, braiding it as if she were his own granddaughter. She laughed at his jokes, wept quietly when something moved her deeply, or mistook him for a longlost lover from her youth.
The staff often said Tomás possessed an old soul in a young body. He wasnt there for charity or school assignments; he was there because he wanted to be.
That boy has a huge heart, remarked Nurse Marta, the most senior worker at the home.
The secret no one knew
Throughout all his visits, Tomás never revealed that he wasnt just a friend to DoñaClara. He was her grandsonthe only one.
The backstory was painful: when Clara began to forget, her sole son, Tomáss father, decided to admit her. At first he visited frequently, then his visits grew sparse until one day he stopped coming altogether, saying it hurt him too much to see her like that. Tomás, however, could not bear the thought of leaving her alone.
At home, his father avoided the subject. She isnt the same woman, he said coldly. Its better if she stays there. Yet for Tomás, she remained his grandmother. Even when she failed to recall her name, or called him Fernando or Julián, he sensed that somewhere in her mind love still lingered.
The confession
One winter afternoon, while he was brushing her hair by the window, Clara stared at him intently. For a fleeting moment her eyes seemed to recognize him.
You have my sons eyes, she whispered.
Tomás smiled.
Perhaps destiny lent them to me.
She lowered her voice, as if sharing a secret.
My son walked away when I started to forget he said I was no longer his mother.
The words hurt Tomás, but he did not argue. He squeezed her hand tightly.
When memory fades, sometimes people do too. But not everyone is forgotten.
She looked at him as if his words brought her peace, then drifted back into her thoughts.
The last summer
That year Clara fell ill more often. Good days became rare, and she sometimes could not even rise. Tomás kept visiting, even if only to read to her as she slept or to leave flowers on the bedside table.
One afternoon the homes doctor spoke to him.
Son, your grandmother is very weak. She may not survive the winter.
Tomás bowed his head, but no tears fell. He knew the moment was coming.
On her final birthday, he arrived with a 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 conversation they shared.
The goodbye
Clara passed away in a calm predawn. On her nightstand lay a wilted yet intact wildflower, as if it had clung to its petals until she left.
The funeral was modest. Few attended: a handful of former coworkers, some staff from the home and Tomás. His father showed up at the last moment, stern and tearless.
Nurse Marta, moved, approached Tomás.
Son, why did you never stop coming?
Tomás, eyes red, answered,
Because she was my grandmother. Everyone abandoned her when she fell ill. I didnt. Even when she no longer knew who I was.
His father, hearing the reply, lowered his head in shame. He said nothing, but after the service he placed a hand on Tomáss shoulder.
You did what I couldnt, he murmured. Thank you.
Epilogue
Years went by. Tomás grew up, graduated from university, and became a writer. His debut novel was titled *The Flower That Never Withered*, dedicated to the memory of DoñaClara.
In the dedication he wrote: To my grandmother, who taught me that true family bonds depend not on memory but on the heart.
The cover featured an illustration of a wildflower, identical to the one Tomás had brought each afternoon to room214.
Thus, even though Alzheimers erased names and dates, it could not erase the most essential thing: the love that remains when everything else fades.
