She kissed him goodbye, knowing he wouldn’t remember her tomorrow. Each night, his mind reset like the tide, washing her away and leaving only a faint trace behind. The breeze tugged at her hair as sunlight spilled across the waves. She never told him anything - only smiled, held him close, and promised she’d see him at sunset, when the last rays of light sank into the sea and everything felt possible again.


They met each evening on the same stretch of beach, where the waves whispered against the shore. He would be waiting near the old wooden steps leading down to the sand, his hair tousled by the wind, and his eyes lighting up the moment he would spot her. “You’re here,” he would say, surprise and delight threading his voice, his expression softening. She would return his gaze with a gentle smile, slipping her hand into his. Together they would step onto the sand, the air rich with salt and seaweed, the tide curling softly around their feet.


Their nights unfolded like small miracles. They would walk along the sand, talking quietly and laughing at little things, their footprints weaving close together before the tide erased them. He would ask her about her day or her favourite things, and she would answer with a smile, teasing him gently at times. She would tell him about secret corners of the beach that only appear at sunrise, a garden where flowers glow under the moonlight, and a hidden cove where the sunlight makes the water shimmer in colours he could hardly imagine. Sometimes he believed her completely, sometimes he would laugh and shake his head, convinced she was only teasing. She would smile softly, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes, savouring the intimate bond between them, the quiet magic of a love that felt new each night.


With the first light of dawn spilling across the sea, their walk would come to an end, and he would lead her to her house by the beach that stood alone amid the endless stretch of sand, its red rooftop glowing in the sunrise, white walls brushed with gold, and a garden spilling the scent of lavender into the morning air.


Every time, a quiet sadness would settle over him as they reached the doorstep, and she would feel it too - a gentle ache, the weight of a moment she could never keep, knowing that when she kissed him goodbye, he would forget her again. Sometimes his gaze would linger, filled with hope, wishing he could follow her inside. She would only smile, slipping past him to open the door, fully aware that when they met again at dusk, the ritual would repeat - though only she would remember the night that had just ended.


And then one night, everything felt different. The moon hung lower than usual, casting long,fractured shadows across the shore. They didn’t laugh or tease each other as they usually did. The only sound breaking the silence was the soft crunch of sand beneath their feet. He felt a pull deep in his chest, an unease he couldn’t name -a quiet anticipation that something was about to happen, something that might finally make all the scattered pieces in his mind align, though he wasn’t sure he wanted them to.


When they reached her house, he hesitated at the doorstep, just as he always had. He looked at her, trying to memorise every line of her face. His voice trembled, barely more than a whisper. “I… I don’t know your name,” he said, as if saying it aloud could shatter the deep bond between them. But she smiled - the same soft, patient smile she had given him every night before. “Beth,” she replied gently. It was the same name she had whispered to him a thousand times, yet each time, it felt as though he were hearing it for the first time. Then she kissed him softly on the cheek, pausing longer than usual.


But this time, she didn’t say goodbye. She didn’t turn to go inside. Her eyes lingered on him, steady and unblinking, and for the first time, she reached for his hand, her touch soft, her gaze shimmering with a mix of happiness and longing.“Come,” she whispered.


And as he stepped across the threshold, following her inside, the world outside began to dissolve. The sky faded first, colours running like water from a painting; then the sand, the waves, the house itself - all melting, thinning, until only darkness remained.



Morning crept in through the thin curtains, brushing the room with a quiet warmth. A nurse opened the blinds, and the dim light of dawn spread slowly across the room. “Mr. Carter?” she called softly. No response. The figure in the bed lay still, his wrinkled hands folded neatly on the blanket, his pale, creased face peaceful in the morning light. She hesitated, then moved closer, her voice gentler this time. “John, darling?” Her fingers brushed his wrist. A moment passed - unnervingly quiet - and she let out a slow breath into the silence.


A younger nurse appeared at the doorway, holding a clipboard.

“Is he... ?” she began, stopping when she felt the unnatural stillness in the room. The first nurse nodded faintly. The younger nurse stepped closer.

“He must have passed sometime before dawn,” she said, in a low voice. “When I last checked on him, he was muttering in his sleep. Kept whispering her name… Beth.” The other nurse gave a small, sad smile.

“His wife,” she murmured. “She died in a car accident - fifty years ago. He never stopped thinking of her...even in his darkest moments, even when he struggled to remember her name.”

“Poor thing,” The younger nurse whispered. “He had dementia, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” the other nurse said quietly. “Most days, he didn’t know where he was. In the mornings, he couldn’t remember who his wife was. But every night… he would call her name.”


The younger nurse’s gaze drifted to the man’s bedside table, where a faded photograph in a silver frame showed a young couple on a beach, laughing - their eyes bright with joy, their faces radiant - that fleeting moment of their happiness captured for eternity. She picked up the frame, studying the warmth of that precious instant and imagining the quiet story of a love that had endured beyond time, illness, and death. Then she placed it back with care, leaving the small frame to stand quietly as the sole witness - holding, alone, the memory of a great love the world will never know.