One lone, dew-dropped flower was all that was left. All that was left of her. All that was left of his desires and his hopes. All that was left. He picks it up gently so as not to damage the fragile flower. The dew slides off and wets his palm. He brings the petals to his face and inhales deeply. This is all that is left of her smell too. He holds that last image of her in his mind as the fragrance wafts around him. He will always remember. He turns to go home. As he walks along, he’s careful not to tear the petals. The sand is hot, but he barely notices. Once inside, he pulls her favorite book off the shelf and gently lays the flower inside the back cover. He carefully replaces the book to its rightful place on the shelf. He vows never to forget again. Yet, as he walks into the next room, the memory is already fading. Soon, he won’t even remember that he has a flower that is supposed to mean something to him. And that’s just the way she likes it.