Every afternoon, after leaving high school, Thomas strolled down the cobbled streets with his backpack slung over one shoulder and a wildflower cradled gently between his fingers.

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 Withered**

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 travelled faster than the wind. Among those streets, a boy of just twelve walked each eveningthin, 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 tall windows and a garden full of roses. Not a single day passed without him stepping through its rusty gate after school.

He entered slowly, greeting everyoneMrs. Evelyn knitting on the bench by the entrance, Mr. Albert always asking for a sweet, and the staff who watched him with fondness. They knew Thomas wasnt there out of duty but because of a commitment few understood.

He climbed to the second floor, down the hall to Room 214. There, waiting for him, was Mrs. Clara Hartforda silver-haired woman with eyes that sometimes seemed lost, other times full of life.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Clara,” hed say, setting his bag on a chair. “I brought your favourite flower.”
“And who might you be, dear?” shed often ask with a gentle smile.
“Just a friend,” hed reply.

Clara had once been a literature teacher, elegant and sharp-witted. But Alzheimers had stolen pieces of her memory, one by one. For her, days blurred together, and faces grew unfamiliar. Yet when Thomas visited, a spark flickered in her gaze.

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 grandmother. Shed laugh at his jokes, cry quietly when something touched her, or mistake him for a sweetheart from her youth.

The staff often said Thomas had an old soul in a young body. He wasnt there for charity or school creditshe came because he wanted to.

“That boy hes got a heart of gold,” Nurse Margaret, the longest-serving carer, would say.

**The Secret No One Knew**

In all the time he visited, Thomas never told anyone he wasnt just a “friend” to Clara. He was her grandson. Her only one.

The story was a sad one: when Clara began forgetting, her only sonThomass fatherdecided to place her in care. At first, he visited often, but then the visits grew scarce until one day, he stopped coming. He said seeing her like that hurt too much. Thomas, however, 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 “George,” he knew somewhere in her mind, love remained.

**The Confession**

One winters day, as he combed her hair by the window, Clara studied him intently. For a moment, recognition flickered in her eyes.

“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.”

It pained Thomas, but he 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 drifted back into her thoughts.

**The Last Summer**

That year, Clara grew weaker. Her good days grew rare, and often she couldnt leave her bed. Thomas still visited, reading to her as she slept or leaving fresh wildflowers on her nightstand.

One evening, the care homes doctor spoke to him.
“Son, your grandmother is very frail. She may not 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. She looked at him, lucid for the first time in months, and said,
“Thank you for not forgetting me.”
That was the last day they spoke.

**The Farewell**

Clara passed away on a quiet morning. On her nightstand lay a single wildflower, withered yet whole, as if it had clung to life until she was gone.

The funeral was small. Few attendedsome old colleagues, the care home staff and Thomas. His father arrived at the last moment, stern and dry-eyed.

Nurse Margaret, moved by grief, approached Thomas.
“Love, why did you never stop visiting?”
Thomas looked at her with reddened eyes.
“Because she was my grandmother. Everyone left when she fell ill. I didnt. Even if she didnt remember me.”

His father, overhearing, hung his head in shame. He said nothing, but at the end of 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 Withered*, dedicated to 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 was an illustration of a wildflower, just like the ones hed carried to Room 214.

And so, though Alzheimers erased names and dates, it couldnt erase the most important thingthe love that remains when all else is gone.