Every afternoon, as the school bell rang and students scattered toward their homes, Tomás chose a path that was uniquely his own. He walked through the cobblestone streets of San Miguel with his backpack slung over one shoulder and a wildflower carefully cradled between his fingers. Rain, wind, or scorching heat never deterred him; this was his ritual—unyielding, almost sacred.

San Miguel was a small town, where the scent of freshly baked bread mingled with the earthy aroma of rain-soaked soil. Secrets traveled faster than the wind through its narrow streets, but Tomás’s daily journey was a mystery to most. At just twelve years old, he moved with a calmness that seemed to defy his age, his deep eyes fixed on his destination: the nursing home “Luz de Otoño.”

The nursing home was an old cream-colored building with large windows and a garden blooming with bougainvillea. Every day, without fail, Tomás crossed its rusty gates after school. He entered quietly, greeting everyone along the way: Mrs. Lupita, who knitted on the bench by the entrance; Mr. Raúl, who always asked for candy; and the staff, who looked at him with tenderness. They knew Tomás wasn’t there out of obligation but out of a commitment few could understand.

He climbed the stairs to the second floor, walked to the end of the hallway, and stopped at room 214. There, he was always expected by Mrs. Clara Villaseñor, an elderly woman with hair as white as salt and a gaze that sometimes seemed absent, sometimes full of life.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Clara,” he would say, placing his backpack on a chair. “Here’s your favorite flower.”
“And who are you, dear?” she would often ask with a soft smile.
“Just a friend,” he would reply.

Mrs. Clara had once been a literature teacher—a woman of elegance and strong character. But Alzheimer’s had slowly stolen pieces of her memory. For her, days blurred together, and faces became indistinguishable. Yet when Tomás was there, a spark seemed to ignite in her eyes.

For months, he read her poems by Jaime Sabines and short stories by Juan Rulfo. Sometimes he painted her nails a peach color, other times he carefully braided her hair as if she were his granddaughter. She laughed at his jokes, cried quietly when something touched her soul, or mistook him for a suitor from her youth.

The staff often said Tomás had an old soul in a young body. He didn’t come out of charity or for school assignments; he came because he wanted to.

“That boy… has a huge heart,” said Marta, the senior nurse at the nursing home.

In all the time he visited her, Tomás never revealed that he wasn’t just a “friend” to Mrs. Clara. He was her grandson. Her only one.

The story was heartbreaking: when Clara began to forget, her only son—Tomás’s father—decided to place her in the nursing home. At first, he visited often, but over time, the visits became sporadic… until one day, he stopped coming altogether. He claimed it hurt too much to see her like that. Tomás, however, couldn’t imagine leaving her alone.

At home, his father avoided talking about her. “She’s not the same woman,” he would say coldly. “It’s better for her to stay there.”

But for Tomás, she was still his grandmother. Even if she didn’t remember his name, even if she sometimes called him “Fernando” or “Julián,” he knew that somewhere in her mind, love still remained.

One winter afternoon, as he braided her hair by the window, Clara looked at him intently. Her eyes, for a fleeting moment, seemed to recognize him.

“You have my son’s eyes,” she whispered.
Tomás smiled.
“Maybe destiny lent them to me.”
She lowered her voice, as if sharing a secret.
“My son drifted away when I started to forget… he said I wasn’t his mother anymore.”

Tomás felt a pang in his chest but didn’t contradict her. He squeezed her hand tightly.
“Sometimes, when memory fades, people fade too. But not everyone forgets.”

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

That year, Clara’s health worsened. Her good days were few, and sometimes she couldn’t even get out of bed. Tomás continued to visit, even if only to read to her while she slept or leave flowers on her bedside table.

One afternoon, the nursing home doctor spoke to him.
“Son, your grandmother is very weak. She might not make it through the winter.”
Tomás bowed his head but didn’t cry. He had known this moment would come.

On her last birthday, he brought her a whole bouquet of wildflowers. The room smelled like a meadow. She looked at him and, with a clarity she hadn’t shown in months, said:
“Thank you for not forgetting me.”
That was the last day they spoke.

Clara passed away on a quiet morning. On her bedside table was a wildflower, wilted but intact, as if it had clung to its petals until she left.

The funeral was simple. Few people attended: some old colleagues, the nursing home staff… and Tomás. His father appeared at the last moment, serious, without tears.

Nurse Marta, moved, approached Tomás.
“Son, why did you never stop coming?”
Tomás looked at her with red-rimmed eyes.
“Because she was my grandmother. Everyone abandoned her when she got sick. I didn’t. Even if she didn’t know who I was.”

His father, overhearing, lowered his head in shame. He said nothing, but at the end of the funeral, he approached Tomás and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“You did what I couldn’t,” he murmured. “Thank you.”

Years passed. Tomás grew up, graduated from college, and became a writer. His first book was titled “The Flower That Never Wilted,” dedicated to the memory of Mrs. Clara.

In the dedication, he wrote:

“To my grandmother, who taught me that true family bonds don’t depend on memory… but on the heart.”

On the cover was an illustration of a wildflower, just like the ones he had brought to room 214 every afternoon.

And so, while Alzheimer’s erased names and dates, it couldn’t erase the most important thing: the love that stays when everything else fades.