TOMORROW (MEMORY)

She loved the orchids. But she never remembered why

She wandered the halls of the grand house in quiet awe.
The drapes pooled at her fingertips, silk so heavy it seemed to breathe.
Above her, a family portrait lingered in the half-light, overdressed and patient, watching her cross their lives again and again.

She traced the wallpaper, feeling the faint rise of ink pressing flowers into bloom.
At the stairwell she stopped, closed her eyes, and imagined the painted family descending, greeting the day, greeting her.
Kneeling, she pressed her hand to the carpet, the wood, the years worn smooth by other steps.

Out of breath, she sat. That was when she noticed the figure behind her, a stranger, though not unkind. For a moment, she felt at home.
Ease settled over her, then slipped, like all her memories.

She tried to recall the color of the curtains upstairs, promised herself she’d look tomorrow. Fatigue swept through her.
Curling on the stair, she let herself drift until the young hand at her elbow steadied her back to standing.

They walked together. Windows glimmered. Orchids bloomed pale against the glass.
She paused, fingertips grazing their waxy leaves, orchids had always been her favorite.
Through the grand doors, across the roses and clipped lawn, into the small cottage waiting with its fire and its armchair.

She wrapped herself in the wool blanket and slept.
When she woke, she asked again for the house across the way, the one with the orchids in bloom.
Tomorrow, they said, tomorrow she would visit. Tomorrow, she would remember.