Chapter 1
Starting point
Sam, struggling with fading memories and dissociation, encounters an old friend Clara in a hospice garden. Through a shared memory of a tube of cerulean blue paint, Sam begins to recover a lost moment and commits to writing it down, setting the stage for a tentative step forward.
The teacup trembled in Sam's hands, the thin porcelain rattling against the saucer like the chattering of teeth. The stone bench in the hospice garden was cold, even through the worn corduroy of Sam's trousers. A single leaf, gold and curled, drifted down to land on the open page of the blue notebook. Sam stared at the leaf, then at the half-written line beneath it: The last time I saw her, she was laughing about the rain.
The memory was there, just out of reach—a shimmering shape behind frosted glass. Her laugh, light as a bird's wing. The way the rain had soaked her hair, making it cling to her cheeks. But when Sam tried to grasp it, to write it down before it faded completely, the words turned to dust. The teacup trembled again, and a splash of chamomile sloshed over the rim, staining the paper.
"Sam? There you are."
The voice was familiar, but Sam couldn't place it. A woman in a green cardigan stood at the garden gate, her hands tucked into her pockets. She had a kind face, the sort that might belong to a nurse or a teacher. But there was something else—a line of concern between her brows, a hesitation in her step. She didn't come closer.
"I'm sorry, do I know you?" Sam heard the flatness in their own voice, the way it always went when the fog settled. The teacup was cold now, the tea forgotten.
The woman smiled, but it was a careful smile. "It's me. Clara. From the art shop. We used to spend hours there, remember? Buying paint you never used."
Clara. The name was a stone dropped into deep water—ripples spread, but no shape rose to the surface. Sam looked at the notebook, at the stain spreading like a bruise through the paper. The memory of the rain and the laugh was gone now, replaced by a dull ache behind the eyes.
"I don't remember," Sam said. It was the truth.
Clara took another step forward, then stopped. "That's okay. I heard you were here, and I wanted to check on you. The garden helps, doesn't it?"
Sam blinked. The garden. Yes, the chrysanthemums were still in bloom, their rust and gold heads catching the late afternoon light. The lavender bush by the bench hummed with bees. Sam had been coming here for three weeks, ever since they'd found the blue notebook in the back of the wardrobe, its pages blank except for that one half-written line.
"I'm trying to write it down," Sam said, not sure why they were telling her. "Before it's all gone."
Clara sat down on the bench, a careful distance away. "What's gone?"
"Everything. Her. The rain. The laugh." Sam's voice cracked. "I can feel it slipping away, like water through my fingers. And I can't—I can't hold on."
Clara was quiet for a long moment. The bees droned. A bird called from the hedge. Then she said, "You don't have to hold on to it alone, Sam. That's why I'm here. That's why the hospice has the art therapy room. You can paint it, if you want. Or just talk."
But Sam shook their head. "No. I need to write it. If I don't, it's like she never existed. Like I never existed."
The teacup felt impossibly heavy. Sam set it on the bench, and the leaf that had been on the page fluttered to the ground. Clara reached out, her fingers brushing Sam's wrist. It was a light touch, barely there, but Sam flinched.
"I'm sorry," Clara said, pulling back. "I just—I remember you buying paint. You bought a tube of cerulean blue, and you said it was the colour of the sky after a storm. You never used it, but you kept it on your desk. Do you remember that?"
Cerulean blue. The words hit something deep inside Sam, a locked door that groaned on rusted hinges. The image came: a small tube of paint, a desk cluttered with letters and a dried rose. And a woman's voice, laughing, saying, You'll never paint with that, will you? And Sam's own voice, younger and lighter, replying, I just like knowing it's there.
Sam's breath caught. "Her. She said that."
Clara nodded. "It was the last time you came into the shop. I remember because you looked... sad. Not like yourself."
The memory was back, if only for a moment. Her face, half in shadow, the rain on the window, the smell of turpentine and paper. Sam's hand moved to the pen, uncapping it with a click.
"Thank you," Sam whispered, and began to write. The words came fast, the pen scratching across the page. She laughed about the rain, but her eyes were watching the clouds, waiting for the storm to break.
Clara said nothing, just sat beside Sam as the light began to fade. When Sam finally looked up, the garden was darkening, the sky a deep bruised purple. The teacup was empty, the notebook full of pages that had been blank an hour ago.
Sam closed the notebook and held it to their chest. "I have to go inside now. The therapy session starts in ten minutes."
Clara stood, too. "I'll walk with you."
Sam hesitated. The fog was still there, waiting at the edges. But the memory of cerulean blue was solid, a small boat in the dark water. "Okay," Sam said. "But I need to find a tube of paint first. Cerulean blue."
Clara smiled, the first real smile Sam had seen. "I think I still have one. In my car."
And as they walked together through the garden, the notebook safe in Sam's hands, the story wasn't finished. But it had begun again.