Every afternoon after school, Thomas strolled down the cobblestone streets with his backpack slung over one shoulder and a wildflower carefully cradled 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 Faded**

The streets of St. Michaels always smelled of warm bread and damp earth after the rain. It was a small town where everyone knew each other, and secrets spread faster than the wind. Among those streets walked a boy of just twelve, his backpack hanging loosely and a wildflower held gently between his fingers. His name was Thomas Whitmorea slender lad with deep eyes and a quiet step for his age.

His destination never changed: Autumn Light Care Home, an old cream-coloured building with large windows and a garden full of climbing roses. Not a day passed without him pushing through its rusty gate after school.

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

Upstairs he went, down the hall to Room 214. There waited Mrs. Clara Fairweather, an elderly woman with hair as white as salt and a gaze sometimes distant, sometimes full of life.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Clara,” hed say, setting his bag on a chair. “Ive brought your favourite flower.”
“And who might you be, dear?” she asked almost every time, her smile soft.
“Just a friend,” he replied.

Clara had once been a literature teacher, an elegant woman with a sharp wit. But Alzheimers had slowly stolen pieces of her memory. To her, days repeated, and faces blurred. Yet when Thomas was there, a spark lit 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 as if she were his own grandmother. She laughed at his jokes, wept silently when something touched her soul, or mistook him for a sweetheart 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 a heart of gold,” said Nurse Margaret, the longest-serving carer at the home.

**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 first began forgetting, her only sonThomass fatherhad her moved to the home. At first, he visited often, but over time, his visits grew scarce… until one day, they stopped altogether. He claimed 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. “Its 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 “James,” he knew somewhere in her mind, love remained.

**The Confession**

One winters day, as he combed her hair by the window, Clara looked at him intently. For a moment, her eyes seemed to recognise him.

“You have my sons eyes,” she whispered.
Thomas smiled. “Perhaps fate lent them to me.”
She lowered her voice, as though sharing a secret. “My son left when I started forgetting… he said I wasnt his mother anymore.”

The words stung, but Thomas didnt correct her. He squeezed her hand instead.
“Sometimes when memory fades, people do too. But not everyone forgets.”

She gazed at him as if those words brought her peace, then drifted back into her thoughts.

**The Last Summer**

That year, Clara grew weaker. Her good days dwindled, and often she couldnt leave her bed. Thomas still visited, even if just to read while she slept or leave fresh flowers on her table.

One afternoon, the 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 and, with a clarity she hadnt shown in months, said,
“Thank you for not forgetting me.”
It was the last day they ever spoke.

**The Goodbye**

Clara passed one quiet dawn. On her bedside table lay a single wildflower, wilted but unbroken, as though clinging to life until she was gone.

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

Nurse Margaret, moved, approached Thomas.
“Dear boy, why did you never stop coming?”
Thomas, red-eyed, met her gaze.
“Because she was my grandmother. Everyone left when she fell ill. I couldnt. Even if she no longer knew who I was.”

His father, overhearing, hung his head in shame. He said nothing, but 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, finished university, and became a writer. His first book was titled *The Flower That Never Faded*, dedicated to Claras memory.

In its opening pages, he wrote:

*”To my grandmother, who taught me that family isnt tied to memory… but to the heart.”*

On the cover was an illustration of a wildflower, just like the ones hed carried to Room 214 every afternoon.

And so, though Alzheimers erased names and dates, it could never erase what truly matteredthe love that remains when all else fades.