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 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 walked a boy of barely twelve, his backpack hanging loose and a wildflower between his fingers. His name was Thomas Whitmorea slender lad with deep-set eyes and a quiet stride for his age.
His destination never changed: Autumn Light Hospice, an old cream-coloured building with large windows and a garden full of roses. Not a day passed without him stepping through its rusted gate after school.
He entered slowly, greeting everyoneMrs. Mary, knitting on the bench by the entrance; Mr. George, who always asked for a sweet; and the staff, who watched him with warmth. They knew Thomas wasnt there out of duty but for a kindness few understood.
Up to the second floor he went, down the hall to Room 214, where Mrs. Clara Winslow waitedan elderly woman with salt-white hair and a gaze that sometimes drifted, sometimes sparkled.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Clara,” he’d say, setting his bag on a chair. “Brought your favourite flower.”
“And who might you be, love?” shed ask softly, as if unsure.
“Just a friend,” hed reply.
Mrs. Clara had once been a literature teacher, elegant and sharp-witted. But Alzheimers had slowly stolen pieces of her memory. For her, days blurred, and faces became unfamiliar. Yet when Thomas was there, a light flickered in her eyes.
For months, he read her poems by Wordsworth and tales by Dickens. Sometimes he painted her nails peach, other times he carefully braided her hair like she was his own grandmother. Shed laugh at his jokes, weep quietly when words moved her, or mistake him for some dashing lad 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 has the biggest heart,” said Nurse Margaret, the longest-serving at the hospice.
**The Secret No One Knew**
In all the time he visited, Thomas never told anyone he wasnt just a “friend” to Mrs. Clara. He was her grandson. Her only one.
The story was sad: When Clara first began forgetting, her only sonThomass fatherhad her moved to the hospice. At first, he visited often, but then the visits grew fewer until one day, they stopped. He said seeing her like that hurt too much. Thomas, though, couldnt bear the thought of leaving her alone.
At home, his father refused to speak of her. “Shes not the same woman,” hed say coldly. “Best she stays there.”
But to Thomas, she was still his grandmother. Even if she didnt remember his name, even if she called him “William” or “Edward,” he knew somewhere in her mind, love remained.
**The Confession**
One winters day, as he combed her hair by the window, Clara studied him closely. For a moment, her eyes seemed to clear.
“Youve got my sons eyes,” she whispered.
Thomas smiled. “Maybe fate lent them to me.”
She lowered her voice, as if sharing a secret. “My son left when I started forgetting said I wasnt his mother anymore.”
It stung, but Thomas didnt argue. He squeezed her hand.
“Sometimes, when memory fades, people do too. But not everyone forgets.”
She looked at him as if those words brought peace, then slipped back into her thoughts.
**The Last Summer**
That year, Clara grew weaker. Her good days were few, and often she couldnt leave her bed. Thomas still visited, even if just to read while she slept or leave flowers on her nightstand.
One evening, the hospice doctor spoke to him. “Son, your grandmothers very frail. She may not see the winter.”
Thomas nodded 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. 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 quietly at dawn. On her nightstand lay a single wildflowerwilted but unbroken, as if it had clung on just until she left.
The funeral was small. Few attendedsome old colleagues, the hospice staff and Thomas. His father arrived at the last moment, stiff and dry-eyed.
Nurse Margaret, moved, 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 didnt. Even if she didnt know me anymore.”
His father, overhearing, bowed 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, graduated university, and became a writer. His first book was titled *The Flower That Never Wilted*, dedicated to Mrs. Claras memory.
Inside, he wrote:
*”To my grandmother, who taught me that family isnt bound by memory but by the heart.”*
On the cover was an illustration of a wildflower, just like the ones hed carried to Room 214.
And so, though Alzheimers stole names and dates, it couldnt erase what mattered mostthe love that remains when all else fades.
