Every afternoon after leaving secondary school, Thomas walks along the cobbled streets with his backpack slung over one shoulder and a wildflower carefully cradled in his fingers.
**The Flower That Never Wilted**
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 just twelve walked each evening, his backpack hanging loosely and a wildflower between his fingers. His name was Thomas Archera slender lad with thoughtful eyes and a calmness beyond his years.
His destination never changed: Autumn Light Care Home, an old cream-coloured building with tall windows and a garden full of climbing roses. Not a single day passed without him stepping through its rusted gate after school.
Hed enter slowly, greeting everyone: Mrs. Evelyn, knitting on the bench by the entrance; Mr. Albert, who always asked for a sweet; and the staff, who watched him with quiet fondness. They knew Thomas wasnt there out of duty but because of a commitment few understood.
Up to the second floor hed go, down the hall to Room 214. There, waiting for him, was Mrs. Clara Willoughbya white-haired woman with a gaze sometimes distant, sometimes bright with life.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Clara,” hed say, setting his bag on a chair. “Ive brought your favourite flower.”
“And who might you be, love?” shed often ask with a gentle smile.
“Just a friend,” hed reply.
Clara had once been a literature teacher, a woman of elegance and sharp wit. But Alzheimers had stolen pieces of her memory, bit by bit. For her, days blurred together, and faces faded. Yet when Thomas sat beside her, 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 as if she were his own grandmother. Shed laugh at his jokes, weep silently when something touched her soul, or mistake him for a beau from her youth.
The staff said Thomas had an old soul in a young body. He wasnt there for charity or school credithe came because he wanted to.
“That boy hes got a heart of gold,” Nurse Margaret, the longest-serving carer, often remarked.
**The Secret No One Knew**
In all the time he visited, Thomas never told anyone that he wasnt just a “friend” to Clara. He was her grandson. Her only one.
The story was a sad one: when Clara first began forgetting, her only sonThomass fatherhad her moved into the care home. At first, he visited often, but the visits grew fewer until one day, they stopped altogether. He said seeing her like that hurt too much. Thomas, though, couldnt bear the thought of leaving her alone.
At home, his father avoided speaking of her. “Shes not the same woman,” hed say coldly. “Shes better off there.”
But to Thomas, she was still his grandmother. Even if she didnt remember his name, even if she called him “William” or “Henry,” he knew that somewhere in her mind, love remained.
**The Confession**
One winters day, as he combed her hair by the window, Clara suddenly fixed her gaze on him. For a moment, her eyes seemed to recognise him.
“Youve got my sons eyes,” she whispered.
Thomas smiled. “Maybe fate lent them to me.”
She lowered her voice like she was sharing a secret. “My son left when I started forgetting said I wasnt his mother anymore.”
The words stung, but Thomas didnt argue. He squeezed her hand instead.
“Sometimes, when memory fades, people do too. But not everyone forgets.”
She looked at him as if those words brought her peace, then drifted back into her thoughts.
**The Last Summer**
That year, Clara grew weaker. Good days became rare, and often she couldnt leave her bed. Thomas kept visitingreading to her as she slept or leaving wildflowers on her nightstand.
One evening, the care homes doctor took him aside.
“Son, your grandmother wont last the winter.”
Thomas bowed his head but didnt cry. Hed known this day would come.
On her last birthday, he arrived with a whole bouquet of wildflowers. The room smelled of the countryside. Clara looked at him and, with a clarity she hadnt shown in months, whispered,
“Thank you for not forgetting me.”
That was the last time they spoke.
**The Goodbye**
Clara passed away on a quiet dawn. On her nightstand lay a single wildflowerdried yet whole, as if it had clung to life until she was gone.
The funeral was small. Few attended: old colleagues, care home staff and Thomas. His father arrived at the last moment, sombre and dry-eyed.
Nurse Margaret, moved by grief, approached Thomas.
“Love, why did you never stop coming?”
Thomas, red-eyed, met her gaze.
“Because she was my grandmother. Everyone left when she got ill. I wouldnt. Even if she didnt know who I was.”
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, graduated university, and became a writer. His first book was titled *The Flower That Never Wilted*, dedicated to Claras memory.
Inside, he wrote:
*”To my grandmother, who taught me that family isnt bound by memory but by heart.”*
On the cover was an illustration of a wildflowerjust like the ones hed carried to Room 214 every evening.
And though Alzheimers had erased names and dates, it could never erase what truly mattered: the love that remains when all else is gone.
