Lyra entered the nursing home, where her grandfather stayed—she felt a breath of warm spring air swirl around her, her dark brown, loose curls catching the breeze. She was only seventeen, but her dark brown eyes told a story as if she was elder. The building always had a smell of chemicals used to clean and fresh baked biscuits. She clutched the bouquet of flowers she had, in a way to prepare herself to see him. As a little girl she used to grow flowers with her grandfather—and today she bought fresh scorpion grasses—also known as forget-me-nots. A small blue flower, that held five petals and looked ethereal in bunches. These flowers symbolized her grandfather's battle with dementia.

Nurse Cheryl—her soft, blonde hair neatly tied in a bun, looked up at Lyra with her blue eyes and greeted her with a smile. “He is having a good afternoon today", Nurse Cheryl said in regards of her grandfather. Lyra thanked her and walked to the end of the hall.

Lyra opened the door to Grandpa Samuel’s room, the sun peeking out behind floral curtains in the dim room. 

Grandpa Samuel glanced up, squinting his eyes to get a better look at Lyra, and tilted his head. “Layla?,” he asked, mistaking her for his other granddaughter—Lyra’s sister. Lyra soothed his hand and offered a reassuring smile smile at the increasingly confused man—even though, it pained her to see him in this state.

 Nurse Cheryl entered the room, seeing the sun rays had gotten strong and closed the curtains. “It's Lyra, Mr. Samuel,” she said with the utmost compassion one could have in such situations. “Your youngest granddaughter.” He blinked a few times and then nodded his head slowly. Judging by the look in his eyes, it was clear to Lyra that he was likely to forget her name, once again, in a matter of seconds. But still she smiled, keeping her positive light she had since a child.

After some time, Lyra guided him into the garden. Nurse Cheryl was close behind them, and when Grandpa Samuel knees wobbled—she was there to steady him. 

The weather was nice outside. The sun was warm, the flowers were blooming, and grandpa’s favorite mockingbird that visited him often was hopping around. Lyra sat Grandpa Samuel down and pulled out her notebook, that was filled with stories he used to tell her. Each story was a piece of him—his childhood memories, times in the gardens he worked, and his time with family. Each of these memories were etched into an old styled notebook, that still was in good condition.

Lyra rarely finished some of the stories, because Grandpa Samuel would stop every so often, blankly look at her and ask, “Who wrote that?” Cheryl and Lyra shared a glance, of what seemed to be understanding of Samuel’s question and the pain behind it.