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Novelo Rectangle

The alarm wasn't supposed to go off yet. It rang out in the dim haze of morning, an unwelcome visitor as the first wisps of sunlight crawled across the parlor floor. The sound—shrill, mechanical, piercing—had him standing in confusion at the foot of his bed, his thin nightshirt clinging to his bony frame. He didn't turn it off. He never did. Instead, he'd glance around, bewildered, as though searching for something he'd once known but somehow lost, swallowed up in the cobwebs of a mind unraveling thread by thread. It was just one more morning, they said. One more day. But I knew, each time I watched him, that we were losing pieces of him, like droplets of ink seeping into water. He was still there—his form, his voice, his presence—but the substance that made him him was slowly draining away, slipping into places I could never reach. I watched him fumble with the buttons on his alarm clock, his fingers shaking in a way that they never used to. It was a simple task, something he had done countless times before, but now it seemed as if he was navigating a foreign language, struggling to understand the rules that governed his own existence. As I watched him struggle, my heart ached in a way that was both familiar and painful. He looked like a lost child, searching for something he couldn't quite grasp, his face etched with confusion. It was a sight that broke my heart every single time. I wanted to go to him, to hold him, to tell him everything would be alright. But I knew it would only upset him more, confusing his already scattered mind. Instead, I stood in the doorway, watching silently. He was a shell of his former self, slipping through my grasp like sand through my fingers. The doctors had no words for it. They'd mutter phrases like "failing faculties" or "mental weakness," cold terms that danced around the truth, as if naming it would make it more real. But none of them understood. They couldn't feel the weight of those empty moments between his silences, the agony of watching someone slip away inch by inch, day by day, leaving behind only a hollow shell. None of them understood him. They said his mind was just tired. Worn out, like an old coat that could no longer keep out the chill. "It happens to men of his age," they'd assure me, as if that was some sort of comfort. But there were times—fleeting, fragile, and rare—when he would look at me with something almost like recognition, his gaze soft and almost apologetic, like he knew what was happening but was powerless to stop it. And in those moments, I'd cling to the hope that maybe, just maybe, he was still in there, hiding somewhere deep within. As the years passed, our memories had become more precious to me than any physical possession. They were the only reminders I had of a time when his mind was clear, his voice steady, and his laughter filling the air. I'd replay each memory in my mind, like a film running on constant loop. There was the time he took me to Paris and taught me how to order in French, the way he'd play the guitar and sing to me when I couldn't sleep at night. These were the moments I clung to like a lifeline, praying to a God I wasn't sure I still believed in anymore. There had been signs, of course. Even before the doctors had noticed. The way he'd misplace things, calling out to me, "Have you seen my spectacles?" when they were perched atop his head. Or how he'd pause mid-sentence, his voice trailing off as his eyes grew distant, searching the recesses of his mind for a word he once knew, a memory now shrouded in mist. But I ignored them, brushed them aside as trifles, hoping he'd simply had a long day. Until the day he called me by her name. "Elizabeth.", he whispered, his voice cracked, as he handed me a bouquet of Myosotis flowers, their delicate blue petals trembling in his unsteady grip. He'd always loved them, those flowers. "Do you like them, Elizabeth?", he asked, his voice filled with a tenderness that shattered something inside me. For my name wasn't Elizabeth. That name belonged to the woman in his framed photographs, the one whose hair cascaded down in gentle curls, whose laughter was captured in faded ink and parchment. My mother. The woman he loved more than life itself. And in that moment, I felt like a stranger, an intruder in my own father's gaze. But I took the flowers, forcing a smile as I nodded, my voice soft and wavering. "They're beautiful, Father. Just as beautiful as ever." Each day, the bouquet grew, its petals wilting and falling, only to be replaced with fresh blooms, new Myosotis plucked from the garden. He'd wander outside, rain or shine, gathering those fragile stems with hands that trembled, a ritualistic offering to a memory he could no longer hold in his mind but seemed unable to let go. I'd find them scattered across the house, littering the windowsills and the corners of his study, tokens of remembrance from a man who was slowly forgetting everything. Time became a thief in the night, slipping through the cracks of our lives like the river flowing past my childhood home. I watched him slowly fade, a candle losing its flame. There were days he'd sit on the porch, his back hunched, his gaze lingering on the horizon, as if searching for something I couldn't see. His words became fewer, more disjointed, until silence became his most frequent companion. In those years, a strange sort of acceptance set in. He no longer knew my name, my voice, my presence. He lived in a world that I was no longer a part of. As he struggled to remember names and places, I started to forget what it felt like to have a father who was there, present, in every way that counted. The person sitting across from me at the dinner table looked like my dad, talked like my dad, but the essence of him, the things that made him mine, were fading away like a dying candle. His hands, which once held my small ones, now trembled when he tried to button his shirt. His once sharp mind, full of wisdom, now couldn't remember where he had stashed his reading glasses for the third time that day. But still, I loved him. Fiercely, unconditionally, as a child loves a parent. There was this one afternoon I remember vividly. It was a cool spring day, the kind that promised rain. My father was sitting in his armchair by the window, staring out at the world with vacant eyes. I sat opposite him in a worn-out chair, a book in my lap, pretending to read. The silence between us was so thick, you could almost reach out and touch it. Then, without warning, he turned to look at me, his voice barely a whisper. "Do you think she forgives me?" I could only stare, words caught in my throat. Forgive him? For what? I had always known him to be kind, gentle, a man who wore his heart on his sleeve. But in that moment, his eyes held a sorrow I'd never seen before, a weight that seemed to crush him from the inside out. I had no reply. The question hung in the air, the silence growing more deafening with each passing second. He didn't say anything else, simply turned back to the window, his gaze once more lost in the distance. I realized then, even if I could utter the words, even if I knew what he was talking about, I didn't have the answer. And perhaps, that was the most heartbreaking realization of all. "It's slipping, isn't it? It's... fading." His gaze turned hollow, as if he were staring into the depths of some endless chasm, a darkness I could never understand. I tried to reassure him, to tell him that it was all right, that he'd done nothing wrong. But he just shook his head, clutching the Myosotis in his hand so tightly that the petals crumpled and tore, blue fragments falling like tiny, delicate raindrops. That day marked a turning point. From then on, my father's condition deteriorated rapidly, each day bringing a different version of him. At times, he was angry, cursing at shadows that haunted his mind. Other times, he was scared, asking me to stay with him, as if the monsters he saw would take him if I left his side. And then, there were the moments of lucidity, when he would look at me with eyes that were clear, just for an instant, and speak my name. Those moments, though fleeting, were my greatest comfort, a reminder of the man who was buried deep within the fog of his disorder. I would hold on to his hand, desperate to keep him with me, even as his grasp grew weaker, his words becoming lost again in the labyrinth of his mind. I started to notice new things about him. Small, insignificant changes that spoke volumes. His fingers, calloused and strong, were now limp and frail. His laughter, once boisterous and contagious, was now a thin, brittle thing, the sound of a fragile thread close to snapping. The flowers wilted, forgotten on the windowsills, their vibrant blue fading to a dull, lifeless gray. The house started to feel more and more like a stranger's home. His favorite armchair, which always held the scent of his tobacco, no longer did. His pipe, kept in a glass-encased shelf, was gathering dust. The only reminder of him was the framed photograph on the mantelpiece—his arm around my mother's tiny waist, their faces glowing with happiness. I found myself gravitating towards that photograph, trying to find comfort in the familiar forms captured within it. But it only brought a new wave of pain, a reminder of what I had lost. It was like chasing after shadows, trying to hold onto something that had already slipped through my grasp. I remember picking up the picture, my heart in my throat as I looked at it. I had always known my father as a strong man, his presence filling any space like a warm ray of sunshine. But in that moment, I couldn't help but compare him to the image in the frame. He had changed so much. His shoulders, once straight and broad, now hunched inwards. His hair, once thick and dark, was thin and speckled with grey. And his eyes, the same beautiful shade of blue as mine, no longer held their old spark. With a shuddering breath, I put the photo back on the mantel, though I held it for a moment longer than I should have, as if the longer I looked, the more I'd somehow preserve him as he was, immortalized in that photograph. The thought felt ridiculous, but desperation had a way of bending reality into something I could almost cling to. As the days passed, I found myself clinging less to the title of his "daughter". I was losing him not only as a father but as any figure who might remember me at all. He didn't see me as family anymore. I was someone else entirely, a nurse perhaps, a caretaker brought in to tend to his needs. I went from being the child he raised to a stranger with a soft voice and steady hands, guiding him through his fogged reality. Sometimes he would look up, his gaze filled with faint recognition, and say, "You're very kind to an old man like me." And I would swallow down the ache that rose in my chest, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach my eyes. "Just doing my job, sir.", I would whisper, playing along, holding the role he needed me to fill. Perhaps he found some comfort in that—a boundary, a sense of professional detachment that made the frayed edges of his world feel a bit more stable. It was easier, I realized, for him to accept me as a caring stranger than to bear the weight of the memories he could no longer reach. And so I stopped trying to remind him. I stopped correcting him when he called me "Miss" or "Madam." It was a small mercy to allow him to drift without the burden of guilt or confusion, even if it chipped away at what little remained of my own sense of belonging. One afternoon, as I was combing through his thinning hair, he looked up at me with wide, innocent eyes and asked, "Did you know I had a daughter? Beautiful girl, with eyes like mine. I miss her, you know. But I'm not sure where she went." A lump formed in my throat, and I bit back the urge to tell him that I was right here. I was the daughter he was searching for, standing inches away from him. But I could only nod, forcing my voice to stay steady. "I'm sure she misses you too.", I whispered, a hollow sort of truth that probably neither of us could fully believe. I learned to live in the half-world with him, in the shadows of memories he couldn't recall and words he couldn't place. I read to him every evening, choosing stories he used to love. Sometimes, he'd close his eyes, a slight smile gracing his lips, and I liked to think he recognized something in those words. But even that hope grew harder to hold onto. It was on a quiet autumn evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the room, that he took his last breath. I held his hand, whispering soft words of comfort, though I knew he could no longer hear me. The flowers—the Myosotis he had cherished—sat on the table, wilting and forgotten, their vibrant blue now dulled to a shadow of what they once were. I felt a surge of anger, grief, and regret all intertwined. Why had I not done more? Why had I not fought harder against the creeping shadows of his mind? With trembling hands, I reached for the bouquet, cradling it as if it were the last remnant of his presence. I wanted to rage against the disease that had stolen him from me, to rail against the universe for its cruel indifference. But all that came out was a broken sob, a desperate plea to the empty room, to the shadows that lingered. It wasn't until I was alone, standing in the empty parlor, that the truth settled over me, a cold, suffocating weight. He had forgotten everything—his friends, his stories, even himself. But he had never forgotten her. My mother. Elizabeth. And as I looked at that single, withered Myosotis, I realized that, in a way, he had remembered her, even as he lost himself. And I—I was merely the keeper of a memory, a legacy that would fade in time, just as he had. In the hushed silence of that empty room, the world outside continued on, unaware of the storm that had just broken within me.&nbsp;I carefully set the wilted bouquet down on the table beside him, feeling a pang of grief for the love that had once flourished like those delicate flowers, now reduced to mere remnants. In the days that followed, I found myself retreating into the garden, where I had planted the new Myosotis,a testament to what once was and a promise that even in the face of loss, love would endure. They would bloom each spring, reminding me that while memories may fade, the essence of those we love remains, rooted deep within our hearts, like the resilient flowers that whisper, "Forget-me-not." I spent many years tending to those fragile, delicate Myosotis. Every spring, I would trim the dead from the living, water and nurture the growing stems, and watch as the blooms unfurled, their soft blue petals fluttering in the breeze like a thousand forgotten memories. Even as I grew older, even as my own hair turned silver and my skin wrinkled from the passage of time, I continued to tend to those flowers, each year a reminder that life was as fleeting as the blooms themselves. And as I stood amongst the field of blue, their gentle perfume encircling me, I couldn't help but wonder if my father—wherever his mind now hid—might feel a whisper of recognition, a flicker of memory, in the scent of those fragile flowers, one of the few things he hadn't forgotten.

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Forget-Me-Not

Angelina_Gut

Angelina Gut

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Forget-me-not

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