She kissed him goodbye, knowing he wouldn’t remember her tomorrow. 

 

The air in the room was still, heavy with the sterile, clinical smell of the care home and the faint trace of the hand-gel she always rubbed on his palms before she left. The sun had started to go down behind the courtyard trees, turning the glass of his window the colour of twilight. It caught the fine silver of his hair and for a moment, she saw the man she had married forty-eight years ago, the one who used to ride motorbikes, sail boats, the one who could fix anything except this. 

 

“Goodnight, my love,” she whispered. 

 

Arthur smiled, polite but uncertain, the way he smiled at visitors he didn’t quite recognise. His eyes, once alive with a glint of mischief, seemed washed out now, fogged by the slow, merciless tide of dementia. 

“Thank you for visiting,” he said. “You’re very kind.” 

 

Her heart squeezed tightly, clenched in despair. There it was again, the quiet erasure, the way he always spoke to her as if she were a stranger. But she had learned not to correct him. In the early months, she used to remind him: It’s me, Nora, your wife. Sometimes it helped for a moment, but more often it brought panic, confusion and tears. The doctors had told her: Let him stay in whatever version of the world he’s in. So she did. She let him live in his reality,  a place where she was sometimes his wife, sometimes a nurse, sometimes a kind woman who brought him tea and Custard Creams. 

 

She collected her bag and coat, from the hanger behind the door, moving slowly, because leaving felt like a betrayal. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said. 

 

Arthur’s eyes softened. “That would be nice. You’re a lovely girl. You remind me of someone.” 

 

She smiled, though her throat was tight. “Who do I remind you of?” 

 

He tilted his head, frowning in thought. “My wife. Nora. She used to wear her hair like that.” 

“She sounds wonderful,” Nora said softly. 

“She was,” he said, and his smile flickered. “She still visits me sometimes.” 

 

Her breath caught, and she blinked hard, hiding the tears welling in her eyes and pretending to adjust the collar of her coat. “I’m sure she loves you very much.” 

 

He nodded, turning his gaze toward the window. “She does. I can feel it, even when I can’t remember her face.” 

 

When Nora stepped into the corridor, the noise of the world came back,  the squeak of a wheel on the tea trolley in severe need of a shot of WD40, the low hum of a television playing the evening news. She walked past the line of doors, each one leading to a small, fading story. Some rooms were filled with family chatter and laughter while others were silent, waiting for the next tick of the clock. 

 

At the end of the hall, she paused at the desk and opened the  visitors’ book, signing her name and time of leaving. She saw the column of her own handwriting stretching back week after week. Every day, she came. Every day, she said goodbye to the man who no longer knew her. 

 

Outside, the air was crisp and smelled faintly of pine from the trees lining the car park. Nora leaned against her car for a moment, closing her eyes. Sometimes she wondered if it would hurt less to stay away, just to let him fade completely instead of watching it happen piece by piece. But then she remembered how, sometimes, just sometimes, he would look at her and for a heartbeat there would be recognition, a flicker of the man she loved. 

 

Those moments were the reason she came back. 

 

 

The next morning, Nora packed a small picnic basket. Arthur had always loved picnics, even just on the lawn outside their old house. She made his favorite, egg & cress sandwiches and a pork pie. She tucked in two bananas, a flask of coffee, and the old photo album she’d brought a dozen times before. 

 

When she arrived, Arthur was sitting by the window again, staring at the garden. His fingers tracing the pattern of his blanket, as if reading a secret message in the fabric. 

“Good morning,” she said gently. 

He turned, smiling. “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” 

 

“Would you like to go outside for lunch today?” 

“That sounds lovely,” he said, then hesitated. “Forgive me, but I can’t quite place your name.” 

 

“It’s Nora,” she said, meeting his eyes. 

He repeated it, slow and careful, as if tasting it. “Nora.” A pause. “My wife’s name was Nora.” 

“She has good taste in names then,” Nora said, smiling. 

 

He chuckled, and for a moment, the sound was so familiar that it made her ache. 

 

 

They sat beneath the trees, the one that blazed orange in the autumn. She laid the blanket down and poured coffee into paper cups. Arthur bit into his sandwich and made a face. 

“What's this?” he said. 

“Egg & Cress , how you like it,” she replied without thinking. 

He looked at her curiously. “Do I?” 

“Yes,” she said softly. “You always did.” 

 

For a while, they ate in companionable silence. A few residents shuffled by with their carers, and the scent of grass mixed with the faint hum of bees. Nora opened the album on her lap. 

“Would you like to look at some photos?” 

“Alright,” Arthur said. “I like stories.” 

 

She turned the first page. A young couple on their wedding day, her dress simple and elegant, his grin wide and confident. 

“That’s you,” she said, pointing. “And that’s me.” 

Arthur leaned closer, squinting. “We look happy.” 

“We were,” Nora said. 

He traced the image with one trembling finger. “She’s beautiful.” 

“She still is,” Nora whispered, though she wasn’t sure he heard. 

 

They moved through the years,  their first house, the birth of their daughter, summer holidays by the sea, the old fishing boat he once owned. Sometimes he asked questions; sometimes he just listened. Once, he reached for her hand. “You remind me of her more and more,” he murmured. 

 

Tears welled in her eyes. “I’m glad.” 

 

“Arthur, I have a surprise for you. Next week I have booked us on a boat trip on the Solent. Do you think you would like that?” she asked. “Yes” he replied almost without hesitation. 

 

When the sun began to dip, she helped him back inside. At the door to his room, he stopped. “Will you come again tomorrow?” 

“Yes,” she said. 

“I’d like that,” he said, smiling faintly. “You make the days feel… less foggy.” 

 

She kissed his cheek, lingering a little longer than usual. “I’ll be here.” 

  

That night, Nora sat at home alone in the quiet house they once shared. His slippers still sat by the door. His books lined the shelf, untouched for years. She made herself tea and let it grow cold as she stared at the photo of them on their 25th anniversary, him in a navy suit, her in a red dress, his arm around her shoulder. 

 

The doctor had warned her that one day he might not know her at all, not even as the kind woman who visited. She thought about that sometimes, what it would mean when even her presence brought him nothing but confusion. 

 

But she also remembered something he once told her, long before the diagnosis, when his mother had been fading the same way. He’d said, “Even when memory goes, love doesn’t. It just changes shape.” 

 

She held onto that. She had to. 

 


The following week, Nora collected Arthur from the care home, gently helping him into the car and answering his anxious questions with calm reassurance. When they arrived at the boat, Wetwheels Hamble, the crew greeted them warmly and helped them, along with the other guests, into lifejackets. As the skipper explained the short cruise down the River Hamble and out into the Solent, Nora noticed Arthur beginning to relax, even to smile. 


After about twenty minutes, the crew quietly observed a change. The man who had arrived silent and withdrawn was now speaking softly to Nora. She said little in return, but her eyes shimmered with tears. 


When the trip ended, Nora guided Arthur back to the car before returning to thank the crew. 


“Thank you, thank you so much,” she said, her voice trembling. “Can I book again for next week? For just an hour, you gave my husband back to me.”  The crew held back tears and swallowed hard, maintaining their professional persona.


Weeks went by. Some days Arthur was quiet, lost in the mist of his mind, other days, flashes of the man she had loved all her life returned, sharp, kind, and funny. Every week they came back to Wetwheels, and then one afternoon, as they glided past Hamble village, he suddenly reached out and touched her face. 


“Nora,” he said, his voice clear — bright as sunlight breaking through cloud. 


She froze. “Yes, my love?” 


He smiled, that same familiar smile she thought she’d lost forever. “You’re here. I knew you’d come back.” 


Tears ran freely down her cheeks. “I never left.” 


He squeezed her hand, his eyes soft and knowing. “I love you.” 


“I love you too,” she whispered. 


For a moment, the fog lifted. For a moment, they were whole again, their entire life folded into a single heartbeat of recognition. 


Then, like the ebbing tide, it slipped away. 


He blinked, puzzled. “Who are you?” 


Nora smiled through her tears. “Just someone who loves you.” 


That night, as she kissed him goodbye at the care home, she knew he would not remember her in the morning. But she also knew with quiet, unshakable certainty- that somewhere deep inside, love still lived, even if the memories did not. 


And that was enough. 




Author's Note: Based on a true story from my time as crew on Wetweels Hamble, a local charity taking disabled people to sea.