Every afternoon, after school let out, Tomás walked the cobbled streets with his backpack slung over one shoulder and a carefully held wildflower between his fingers.
The flower that never wilted
The lanes of SanMiguel always carried the scent of fresh bread and wet earth after a rainstorm. It was a tiny town where everyone knew each other and rumors traveled faster than the wind. In those streets a twelveyearold boy made his way each day, backpack on one shoulder, a wildflower clasped in his hand. His name was Tomás Aguilar, a slender youngster with deep eyes and a calm gait for his age.
His destination never changed: the Luz de Otoño Home, an old creampainted building with large windows and a garden full of bougainvillea. No day passed when he didnt push through the rusty gate after school.
He entered quietly, greeting everyone: SeñoraLupita, who knitted on the bench at the entrance; SeñorRaúl, who always asked for a sweet; and the staff, who looked at him with tenderness. They all knew Tomás wasnt there out of duty, but because of a commitment few could understand.
He rose to the second floor, walked down the far hallway to room214. Waiting there was DoñaClara Villaseñor, an elderly woman with hair as white as salt, whose gaze flickered 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 would ask almost automatically, a gentle smile on her lips.
Just a friend, he replied.
DoñaClara had once taught literature, a dignified woman with a strong character. Alzheimers had been stealing pieces of her memory bit by bit. Days blended together for her, and faces became indistinguishable. Yet whenever Tomás was present, a spark seemed to light her eyes.
For months he read her JaimeSabines poems and JuanRulfo stories. Sometimes he painted her nails peachcolored, other times he gently brushed her hair, braiding it as if she were his own grandmother. She would laugh at his jokes, weep silently when something touched her soul, or mistake him for a youthful lover from her past.
The staff often said Tomás possessed an old soul in a young body. He wasnt there out of charity or school assignments; he went because he wanted to.
That boy has a huge heart, remarked Marta, the homes most senior nurse.
The secret no one knew
Throughout all his visits, Tomás never disclosed that he wasnt merely a friend to DoñaClara. He was her grandsonthe only one.
The backstory was painful: when Claras memory began to fail, her sole son, Tomáss father, decided to admit her. At first he visited frequently, but his appearances grew sparse until one day he stopped coming altogether, saying the sight of her suffering was too much. Tomás, however, could not imagine leaving her alone.
At home, his father avoided the subject. Shes not the same woman, he said coldly. Its better if she stays there.
To Tomás, she remained his grandmother. Even when she failed to recall her own name or called him Fernando or Julián, he trusted that somewhere in the shadows of her mind a fragment of love still lingered.
The confession
One winter afternoon, while he was brushing her hair by the window, Clara stared at him intently. For a brief 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 revealing a secret. My son left when I started forgetting he said I was no longer his mother.
The words hurt Tomás, yet he didnt argue. He squeezed her hand tightly. Sometimes when memory fades, people do too. But not everyone is forgotten.
She looked at him as if his words granted her peace, then drifted back into her thoughts.
The final summer
That year Claras condition worsened. Good days became rare, and she often couldnt get up. Tomás kept visiting, even if only to read to her as she slept or to leave wildflowers on her nightstand.
One afternoon the homes doctor spoke to him. Son, your grandmother is very weak. She may not make it through the winter.
Tomás lowered his head but did not cry. He knew the moment was inevitable.
On her last birthday he arrived bearing a full bouquet of wildflowers. The room smelled of fields. For a fleeting moment of clarity she looked at him and said, Thank you for not forgetting me. That was their final conversation.
The farewell
Clara passed away peacefully in the early hours. On her bedside table lay a wilted yet intact wildflower, as if it had clung to its petals until she was gone.
The funeral was modest. Only a few people attended: some former coworkers, the homes staff, and Tomás. His father appeared at the very end, solemn and tearless.
Nurse Marta, moved, approached Tomás. Why did you never stop coming?
His eyes rimmed with red, he answered, Because she was my grandmother. Everyone left her when she fell ill. I didnt. Even when she no longer knew who I was.
His father, hearing this, bowed 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 finished university and became a writer. His debut novel, titled *The Flower That Never Wilted*, was dedicated to DoñaClaras memory.
In the dedication he wrote, To my grandmother, who taught me that true family ties arent bound by memory but by the heart.
The cover featured an illustration of a wildflower, identical to the one Tomás brought each afternoon to room214.
Thus, although Alzheimers erased names and dates, it could not erase the most vital thing: the love that remains when everything else fades.
