Memory

All he had in his life was memory.

The house sagged beneath the weight of years, timber groaning under rain and neglect. He moved through its narrow halls like a ghost, brushing dust from the shelves, touching remnants of lives once lived. Each object held her imprint, every shadow whispered her name.

Her shawl still hung by the window, faded but fragrant with lilac. He pressed it to his face, inhaling the faint scent, searching for warmth in its emptiness. The garden beyond was wild now, weeds curling around stones they had once walked upon. Memories sprouted like vines, creeping into every corner of his mind.

He sat before the cracked mirror in the hall, tracing lines of age and fatigue across his reflection. His eyes were hollow, yet bright with longing. Every heartbeat recalled her voice, her touch, her laughter that no longer echoed in the world.

The inked parchment lay ready on the table. With shaking hands, he wrote:

Petals fall too soon

memory clings like ivy

I wither alone.

The words were folded carefully and placed beneath her shawl, as if she might read them once more. Outside, the wind whispered through broken windows, stirring the curtains like restless spirits. Rain tapped against the roof, a rhythm both soothing and sorrowful.

He wandered through the house one last time, letting fingers brush over old photographs, pressed flowers, trinkets of joy. Each held a pang, each a reminder that all that remained was memory.

At dusk, he stepped into the garden, feeling the chill seep into bones that remembered too well. Sitting beneath the gnarled tree they had once planted together, he closed his eyes. A deep exhale carried a lifetime of remembrance into the storm.

All he had in his life was memory. And memory would be his final companion, a relentless witness to love, loss, and the passage of time.

All he had in his life was memory—and nothing else could follow him into the night.