The changes were small at first.
She misplaced her keys.
Forgot recipes she had perfected for decades.
Burned the dal one afternoon and laughed it off.
But one evening, she stood in the kitchen holding a knife, staring at the counter.
"What was I doing?" she asked.
Cooking had always been her language of love.
Now the language was disappearing.
I began staying home more.
I moved my laptop to the dining table so I could watch her while working.
I labeled drawers: • Spoons
• Medicines
• Towels
I wrote sticky notes on the fridge: "Today is Tuesday."
"You already had lunch."
"Aarohi loves you."
One night, I heard her crying.
She was sitting on the edge of her bed, holding an old photo album.
"Where did she go?" she whispered.
"Who?" I asked gently.
"My little girl."
I sat beside her.
"I'm here, Ma."
She looked at me.
And for a moment — a beautiful, painful moment — recognition filled her eyes.
"Aarohi," she breathed.
I broke.
Because I realized something terrifying.
Soon, I would be the only one remembering both of us.