Memories—the one thing that always had her attention. She thought of them as her little soldiers who defended her mind against forgetting. There was always at least one memory attached to the things she saw around her or she surrounded herself with things that had at least one memory attached to them—which of the two was true, she did not know, she did not seem to mind. Every time something reminded her of him, she knotted that memory with the moment that had just passed. In this way she added to her treasure trove of those tiny electrical signals in her brain which she called memories. She contented that they were safe. But what she didn’t know was that memories were like the wings of a butterfly. Every time she touched them, their colour dust settled on her fingers but the wings grew weaker. Every time she picked up a memory, she weaved colours and momentary happiness to that moment, but the memory faded. And what does a poor thing such as her do when memories were the only thing she had left of him?