“These… are memories,” he said quietly.
He showed me one. “This is when we met. You were seventeen—with paint on your nose.”
Another. “Our wedding day.”
Another. “When our first child was born. You were exhausted… but glowing.”
We moved through the years.
Then we reached the future.
“This one is 2027.”
In it, I looked confused.
“You painted me forgetting?”
“I painted who you might become. So I can still recognize you… even if you don’t recognize yourself.”
Then 2028.
“You might struggle with faces.”
Then 2029.
“Significant decline.”
“And 2032?”
He hesitated before showing me.
In the corner, he had written:
“Even if she doesn’t know my name, she will know she is loved.”
