Day 69.
I arrived at her house around sunset.She was on the porch, feet tucked under her, a blanket over her lap.
She looked up as I approached.
Paused.
Then—
"Ren."
My heart stopped.
She didn't look confused.She didn't say it like she was guessing.
She said it like she knew.
I didn't speak.Not right away.
Because if I did, I might cry.
Instead, I sat beside her.
"You remembered," I whispered.
She nodded.
"I don't know why… but I saw your face,and the name just came with it."
She looked at me, eyes softer than I'd seen in days.
"Have I said your name before?"
I laughed, almost choking on it.
"A thousand times."
We sat together in quiet relief.
Even if it wouldn't last,even if tomorrow she'd forget again—this moment existed.
And I would hold onto it like breath underwater.
Later that night, as I helped clean the dishes,she walked into the kitchen and asked,
"Do you think I'll remember you tomorrow?"
I didn't answer right away.
Then said—
"If you do, it'll be the best day of my life.""If you don't, I'll just wait for the next one."
Before she went to bed,she gave me her notebook.
"Write today down for me," she said. "I want to make sure I don't lose it."
So I wrote:
"Day 69.Today, you said my name.No one else needed to hear it.Just me."
"It was the most beautiful sound in the world."
Day 68.
She forgot again.
She greeted me with polite confusion.
"You're...?"
But this time, I smiled brighter than ever.
"Hi," I said."I'm Ren."