Fading Photographs

She stands before the mirror, a stranger staring back. Familiar creases map an unfamiliar face, each line a story she can no longer read. 

Names slip through her fingers like water, faces blur into indistinct shapes. Her past becomes a series of fading photographs, edges curling, colours washing away.

The house she's lived in for decades becomes a labyrinth. Rooms shift and change, and doorways leading to unexpected places. 

She wanders, lost in her own home, searching for something she can't quite remember. 

Time plays tricks - sometimes she's a young woman again, waiting for her husband to come home from work, only to find a grown daughter gently reminding her that he passed years ago.

Words dance on her tongue, rearranging themselves into nonsensical patterns. 

She reaches for them, grasping at wisps of meaning that dissolve like morning mist. 

Frustration builds, a dam holding back a lifetime of thoughts and memories she can no longer express.

In lucid moments, fear grips her heart. She sees the worry in her loved ones' eyes, and feels the weight of what's slipping away. 

She clings to fragments - the scent of her mother's perfume, the sound of her children's laughter, the taste of her favourite tea. Each clear memory becomes a lifeline to who she once was.

As twilight falls, bringing its own confusion, she sits in her favourite chair. 

A soft blanket enfolds her, and for a moment, she feels safe. 

Tomorrow, she knows, she'll wake to a world slightly less familiar. 

But here, now, she breathes in the present - the only time that truly exists for her anymore.