The dirt sank slightly under his soft footsteps. The sun shined overhead, casting a warm glow on the grassy field in front of him. He went on walks frequently, sometimes for a few minutes, sometimes for a few hours. On these days, with nice weather, he’d walk until he forgot where he was going. Sometimes it felt like days, weeks or even years, but time no longer bothered him.

He dwelled on his time long ago, thinking of how he never had enough and how he always wanted more. Life was cruel, and, as his time passed, he grew to accept his ever-nearing end.

His age showed in every facet of his drooping face. His skin hung loosely over his prominent cheek bones like a poorly constructed tent. The folds and creases of his wrinkles perpetually formed an inviting smile for anyone desiring a surface-level conversation of platitudes and pleasantries.

Strangers came and went, each asking him why he still walked, especially at his age, but he never could answer. He walked endlessly for a reason only his past self knew. He continued out of habit and respect for the person he once was.

Many warm, friendly faces understood him. They encouraged him to stay healthy in his old age. Others, angry and condescending, couldn’t comprehend why a man of his age walked for no reason. His memory of those conversations never remained, however. Neither did the features of their faces, which disappeared from his mind the moment their interaction ended

He held on to those details in the past hoping to avoid awkward conversations. Then, eventually, the details, even those he wanted desperately to remember, evaded him. Every face he met was new, whether it actually was or not.

Two faces stayed forever in his memory, though, if only vaguely. One was a woman with silky cheeks tinted rose with blush. Her eyes were brown and full of energy like a cup of fresh coffee. The smile on her lips was like a plague, spreading to anyone privileged enough to see it. Her laughter always sent warmth through the old man’s chest and filled his stomach with butterflies. Something about her was special, and yet, her name escaped him. She felt so familiar, but his recollection of her felt so distant. Love was there, but was it reciprocal? Who was she? Why couldn’t he remember?

The other face he recalled was a woman not-so-full of vibrance. In every instance he could remember, she was downcast. She always shouted at him, tears slipping from her sullen eyes down to her chin and raining on her shirt. Her voice was distant, the words indiscernible, but her tone teemed with irritation and sorrow so deep that it became unforgettable. She felt important, but her name kept slipping away. The stinging in the old man’s chest that always came when she cried implied a connection of some sort. What was that connection? She was different from the other woman, though the familiarity was undeniable. He felt a tickle in his heart, perhaps love of a different variety. Anything further, however, was obscured with a fog that never lifted from his mind. The frustration and guilt of not knowing ate away at him every second they spent together.

His idle thinking and wandering led him to an oak tree on the far side of the neatly trimmed yard he so frequently walked. Remembering was getting harder every day, and the oak tree, faceless and impersonal, was his anchor. The oak never cried when he asked it questions. It didn’t scold him for his behavior. It didn’t resent him for things out of his control. It stood strong and constant, through good weather and bad. He admired its strength.

He knelt, observing a caterpillar gnawing at a fallen leaf by his feet. “You’re a cute little guy,” he said with a chuckle, poking his finger at the fuzzy, worm-like creature.

“Dad? How long have you been out here?”

The voice had a smooth cadence, and each word was enunciated with purpose. He turned to find a familiar woman looked down at him.

The woman from his memory, as beautiful as she was, radiated sadness. Her eyes were auburn like dried autumn leaves, though the red irritation was indicative of tears. Her long and wavy hair spilled over her shoulders like a wave of black ink pouring from a broken pen.

“A little while, or perhaps a long while,” he chuckled, “but I think you have the wrong person.” Every syllable spoken from his lips was long and drawn-out. His voice was deep and soothing, even with the raspiness that developed with the passage of time.

She exhaled sharply and approached him. “You can’t just walk away during lunch. The nurses and I have been looking all over for you,” the woman scolded, tears damming in her eyes.

A pang of anguish filled the old man’s chest, the familiar feeling of a forgotten memory. “And who might you be?” he asked.

Pain rippled through the woman’s features like a thrown rock breaking the surface tension of a lake. She bit her lip, the tears now flowing in a steady river, tracing down the contours of her face. “Veronica. Don’t you remember me?”

The name brought back a vague recollection of some time long ago—a nurse asking him a question, a baby in his arms.

“I’m afraid I don’t,” he replied solemnly. With his every word, the frown that had started forming on the woman’s face sank deeper. She shrank back, holding her arms close to her chest.

“I’m your daughter!” Her breath hitched, and she paused. She took a moment to compose herself, then continued in a calm, quiet voice, “Heather, your wife. She was my mother.”

“Heather?” he asked. A fuzzy image faded into his mind. Heather sat across from him at a diner. Her smile, the one he fell in love with, wrenched at his heart. Her playful laughter echoed in his mind. He reached for her, but she vanished before he could capture the memory.

The man blinked slowly, the oak tree coming back into focus. He rubbed his eyes. “A memory is like a fish. You want to catch it, but it only comes to surface for a moment.” He sighed, turning his gaze to the woman in front of him. “I only have a hazy recollection,” he admitted.

She straightened her posture with a quiet sniffle. “I understand.” She gently grasped the man’s hand. Her skin was smooth to the touch and somehow warmer than the sun shining overhead. Her hand was still slightly damp with smeared tears. “I can tell you more when we go inside.”

She gestured back to a short building sitting beyond the grassy edges of the courtyard surrounding them. A quaint, suburban town dotted the landscape behind the worn-down, rectangular structure.

Her words confused the old man, but he followed without question. For some reason, he trusted the woman, even if he didn’t remember her. He followed if only to prevent upsetting her further.

The woman’s hair swung softly like a pendulum with every patient step she took toward the building. She paused several times to wait for the old man to catch up. After the third time, she wrapped her arm around the old man’s shoulders to help him along.

The aromatic scent of citrus and flowers filled his nose. For a moment, the fog the man constantly struggled with lifted.

“I must say, I’m surprised,” he said. The woman turned to him as he stopped, smiling at her. “You haven’t changed your perfume since high school? Poppy and lemon?”

Veronica’s eyes widened. Silence hung in the air for a long moment, then she giggled and wiped fresh tears from her eyes. “You’re right. I haven’t. It’s the one you and Mom got me right before prom.”

“She used to say she picked it out, but actually I did,” the old man laughed. “She didn’t like the flowery scents.”

The man patted her back and the two continued toward the building. Birds chirped somewhere behind them in the yard, and the hum of a distant lawn mower echoed in the air.

“She didn’t? She wore them all the time,” Veronica said. Her warm smile was reminiscent of the other woman from the old man’s memory. What was her name?

The woman beside him started rambling on about flowers and perfume, something about her past. The man couldn’t focus on anything she said, though. What was that woman’s name?

The sinking feeling developed in his stomach again. Fog seeped into his mind, clouding the images and memories he only just recaptured. He scratched and clawed at the memories, but still they raced away from him, questions and confusion taking their place. He looked back at the oak, then to the woman beside him.

Who was she?