Cecily stood beneath the ash tree, her fingers lightly brushing the moss-covered stone of the dry fountain. A few pale petals from some forgotten rose bush danced in the morning wind, carried like ghosts across the ground. The air smelled of damp earth and faded things. Here, in the quiet of the garden, she felt closest to him—even though she could no longer hold his name in her mind.
She had dreamed of him again. The moment had been sharp and aching, but it ended too soon, and the name—like every time before—slipped from her like a whisper on water. She could feel it in her chest, lodged somewhere deeper than memory.
But she had not written it. She had been too overwhelmed, too shaken.
Cecily pulled her journal from her shawl and flipped to the last page she had written. Her handwriting grew more desperate with each entry, ink darker and lines pressed harder into the paper. It was as though part of her feared he would vanish entirely if she did not try to trap him in her words.
He told me his name again. I said it back. I remember the feeling of it in my mouth. But when I woke, it was gone. Again.
Why do I forget? Is it something I'm doing? Is it my mind that betrays me—or something else?
The dreams came only at night, always in the garden, always under the stars. And each time, he seemed both relieved and sorrowful to see her.
"I'm trying," she whispered to the wind. "I'm truly trying."
That night she met him again. "Why do I forget?" she asked
"I do not know, truly" The man replied looking at her with pity
"All I want is to remember.. you" Cecily said
"Then I shall tell you, Once again" And he did, He told Cecily his name while holding her hands. Cecily repeated his name once, twice, thrice until she awoke from her slumber.
And she remembered.