Have we met before?

The nurses knew her by sight. Every Thursday at three o’clock, she would arrive carrying the same worn leather handbag and wearing the same grey coat, regardless of the weather. She would sign the visitor register, smile politely at reception, and make her way down the corridor to Room 18.

Nobody questioned it anymore. Why would they?

“You’re here to see Frank?” one of the nurses asked as she passed.

Sarah just smiled. “That’s right.”

The nurse returned the smile. It was the same smile they always gave her. Warm. Sympathetic. A smile reserved for family.

Frank was sitting by the window when she entered. Rain streaked the glass. The television was quiet in the corner. He looked smaller now than he had the week before, his shoulders folded inward beneath a blanket.

His eyes drifted toward her, confused and searching. Then he smiled. “Have we met before?”

Sarah pulled a chair beside his bed. “No, Frank,” she said softly. “I don’t think we have.”

His smile widened. “Thought so.”

She sat with him for an hour while he told her about a dog he’d owned as a child. The dog changed names three times during the conversation. At one point he asked if she was married, not long after he called her Margaret. And when she left he thanked her for visiting, already forgetting she was there.

The following Thursday he thought she was his sister. The Thursday after that, he mistook her for a nurse. Last week he was convinced she was his wife. “You’re beautiful,” he said with a smile.

Sarah nearly laughed. Instead, she stood and walked to the window until she could trust herself to speak again.

The staff found it touching.

One afternoon, a young nurse stopped her in the corridor. “It’s lovely that you keep coming,” she said.

Sarah paused. “What is?”

“Most families stop visiting eventually.” The nurse smiled sadly. “Dementia’s hard.”

Sarah looked through the glass panel of Frank’s door. He was asleep in his chair.

He looked peaceful. Harmless, even.

The nurse lowered her voice. “You’re a good daughter.”

Sarah stared at Frank for a long moment. Then she smiled, and said nothing.

Years passed that way. Thursday after Thursday, season after season. Those visits became part of the home’s routine.

The nurses changed. The wallpaper changed... even Frank changed, but Sarah kept coming. Sometimes she would wonder why? Perhaps because she had spent thirty years carrying the memories he no longer could. Perhaps because she hated him, or maybe she just needed him to remember.

Just once, just one more time.

The rain was falling when it finally happened. She noticed it the moment she entered. Frank wasn’t looking out the window, he was just sitting there, staring at the door.

Waiting.

His eyes locked onto her as she stepped inside. For a second, something moved behind them. It wasn’t the confusion she’d grown used to. No, it was recognition.

Sarah’s pulse quickened, she moved slow and sat down carefully.

Frank didn’t smile. He didn’t ask who she was this time. No, this time he whispered a single word.

“Sarah.”

The room seemed to shrink. The television giggled quietly behind them as Sarah felt her throat tighten.

“What did you say?”

His hands began to tremble.

“Sarah.”

Thirty years! Thirty years she’d waited to hear her name spoken by that voice.

She leaned forward. “Do you know who I am?”

Frank’s face drained of colour. The trembles in his hands spread through his entire body as his eyes filled with tears.

And now. Suddenly, suddenly Sarah knew.

He remembered. Not her face, not her life, not even the decades in between.

He remembered that night.

The fear in his expression told her everything. He remembered the shed. The rain on a tin roof. A yellow torch hanging from a nail, rocking back and forth.

Fragments.

But it was enough.

She only remembered broken pieces of herself buried in that shed.

Until now.

“Please,” he whispered.

Sarah felt her fingernails digging into her palms. As she asked him. “Do you remember?”

Frank closed his eyes as a tear rolled down his cheek. “Please.”

It wasn’t denial. There was no confusion.

Only a raw fear, raw and naked. Exposing him, out in the open for everyone to see. Just like that fear she’d carried home all those years ago.

Sarah sat very still. She had imagined this moment thousands of times.

An apology.

A confession.

Anger.

Relief.

But now that it was here, she felt only exhaustion. She looked at the old man in the chair, that monster she had spent half a lifetime chasing. A man age had reduced to skin, bone and trembling hands.

“Do you remember?” she asked again.

His head moved, a tiny nod. “Yes.”

For the first time in decades, it was a yes.

Sarah stood.

Frank’s eyes opened. Terrified. “Don’t leave.” He pleaded.

She looked at him. At his panic, and his guilt. She watched the memories continue to return, then she picked up her handbag.

And she walked out.

The next Thursday, rain tapped softly against the windows as the receptionist waved as Sarah entered. They nurses greeted her by name as usual. Everything was exactly as it had always been.

Room 18.

Three o’clock.

The same chair.

The same television.

The same blanket.

Frank looked up as she entered, his expression was vacant. He blinked and studied her face. Then he smiled. “Have we met before?”

Sarah stood motionless. For a moment she thought she might scream. Maybe even cry.

She could tell him everything. Tell the nurses, but, instead she sat down beside the bed.

The nurse passing the doorway paused. “Good afternoon, Frank.”

Frank nodded cheerfully and the nurse smiled at Sarah. “Some days are better than others.” She said.

Sarah watched as the old man searched her face, searching for a memory that no longer existed, and the nurse moved on.

Frank waited patiently still smiling, still wondering who this woman was.

Sarah looked out at the rain, then back at him. “No, Frank,” she said softly. “I don’t think we have.”

He smiled with relief.

But Sarah realised she would be back next Thursday.

And the Thursday after that.

And the Thursday after that.

Waiting for the day he remembered.

Just once more.