Every afternoon, as he left high school, Thomas walked along the cobbled 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 lanes of Little Welling always smelled of warm bread and damp earth after the rain. It was a tiny village where everyone knew each other, and gossip spread faster than the wind. Among those streets walked a boy of just twelvethin, with a quiet gaze and a measured step for his age. His name was Thomas Archer, and his routine never changed.

His destination was always the same: Autumn Light Care Home, an old cream-coloured building with tall windows and a garden bursting with roses. Not a day passed without him pushing through its rusted gate after school.

Hed stroll in slowly, greeting everyoneMrs. Whitmore knitting on the bench by the entrance, Mr. Higgins always asking for a sweet, and the staff, who watched him fondly. They knew Thomas wasnt there out of duty but because of a kindness few understood.

Up to the second floor, down the hall, Room 214. There, waiting for him, was Mrs. Clara Winslow, a white-haired woman with eyes that flickered between absent and alive.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Clara,” hed say, dropping his bag on a chair. “Brought your favourite flower.”

“And who might you be, love?” shed ask softly, as she often did.

“Just a friend,” hed reply.

Clara had been a literature teachersharp-witted and elegant. But Alzheimers had stolen pieces of her memory bit by bit. To her, days blurred, faces faded. Still, when Thomas visited, a spark lit in her gaze.

For months, he read her poems by Wordsworth and tales by Dickens. Sometimes he painted her nails peach, other times he braided her hair like she was his own grandmother. Shed laugh at his jokes, weep silently when a line moved her, or mistake him for a sweetheart from her youth.

The staff said Thomas had an old soul. He wasnt there for charity or school credithe just wanted to be.

“That boy hes got a heart bigger than the sky,” Nurse Margaret, the longest-serving carer, would sigh.

**The Secret No One Knew**

In all the time he visited, Thomas never told them 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 sonThomass fatherhad her moved to the home. At first, he visited often, then rarely until one day, he stopped coming. “It hurts too much,” hed said. 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 flatly. “Best she stays there.”

But to Thomas, she was still his gran. Even if she didnt know his name, even if she called him “William” or “Edward,” he knew somewhere in her mind, love lingered.

**The Confession**

One winters day, as he combed her hair by the window, Clara suddenly looked up. For a fleeting moment, her eyes cleared.

“Youve got my sons eyes,” she whispered.

Thomas smiled. “Maybe fate lent them to me.”

She leaned closer, 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 studied him, soothed by the words, before drifting back into her thoughts.

**The Last Summer**

That year, Clara grew weaker. Good days were scarce; some mornings, she couldnt rise. Thomas still came, even if just to read while she slept or leave flowers on her nightstand.

One afternoon, the care homes doctor took him aside. “Son, your grans fading. She may not last the winter.” Thomas nodded but didnt cry. Hed known this would come.

On her last birthday, he arrived with a whole bouquet of wildflowers. The room smelled like the countryside. She looked at him, lucid for the first time in months, and said, “Thank you for remembering me.”

That was their last proper conversation.

**The Goodbye**

Clara passed away on a quiet dawn. On her nightstand lay a single wildflower, wilted but clinging to its petals, as if it had refused to let go until she did.

The funeral was smalla handful of old colleagues, the care home staff and Thomas. His father showed up last-minute, stone-faced, dry-eyed.

Nurse Margaret, moved, approached Thomas. “Love, why did you never stop coming?”

Thomas, red-eyed, met her gaze. “Because she was my gran. Everyone left when she got ill. I didnt. Even if she didnt know me anymore.”

His father, overhearing, hung his head. He said nothinguntil the end, when 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.

Inside, hed written: *”To my gran, who taught me family isnt held by memory but by heart.”*

On the cover was a wildflower, just like the ones hed carried to Room 214.

And so, though Alzheimers erased names and dates, it couldnt erase the one thing that matteredthe love that stays when all else is gone.