Every Thursday at 3 p.m., Silas came for roses. Same yellow hat. Same cart. Same gentle ritual. He’d place the bouquet beside a woman in a cardigan—his wife—who barely recognized him.

“Are these from the man who used to bring me flowers?” she’d ask.

He’d smile and say, “Yes, dear. Every Thursday.”

Even as her memory faded, he showed up—with daisies, roses, and eventually, sunflowers. “They remind her of her garden,” he told a clerk.

Sometimes, she remembered. “Silas, do you recall the sunflowers?” she asked once. Just a moment—but he lived for those.

Then one Tuesday, not Thursday, Silas came in. No roses. Just a lavender plant.

“She died this morning,” he said gently. “Peacefully.”

The lavender was for his kitchen. “She loved the smell,” he said. The notes he used to hide in her flowers? They were reminders. For her… and for him. A poet, a writer—her words still guided him.

Love isn’t just memory. It’s presence. It’s patience. It’s a garden built from shared moments.

If this story moved you, share it. Let someone know that even when memories fade, love does not.

❤️