Every morning for thirty-two years, Huy woke before Lan.

What Remains

Every morning for thirty-two years, Huy woke before Lan.

He liked the quiet hour before sunrise, when the house belonged only to him and his thoughts. He would boil water, brew tea, and sit by the window watching the street come alive. Lan used to tease him for it.

“You’re already an old man,” she would laugh, pulling the blanket over her head.

Now, she no longer teased.

Lan had grown slower in recent years. Her hands sometimes trembled when she buttoned her blouse. Her memory slipped in small, unsettling ways—misplaced keys, forgotten names, stories repeated twice in one afternoon.

The doctor had said, gently, “It will progress. Slowly, but surely.”

Huy nodded at the time, pretending he understood what surely meant.

He understood now.

Some days, Lan was almost herself. She watered the plants, scolded Huy for forgetting to buy ginger, and asked about the neighbors. Other days, she stared at old photographs with a puzzled expression.

“Who is this man?” she once asked, pointing at their wedding picture.

Huy felt his chest tighten. Still, he smiled. “That’s me.”

She laughed awkwardly. “Really? He looks so confident.”

“I was,” Huy said. “Because I was marrying you.”

She didn’t remember the wedding, but she smiled anyway.

Love, Huy learned, could survive without memory—but it demanded patience.

Every evening, he told Lan stories. Not new ones. Old ones. The first time they met at university. The rainy afternoon when they shared one umbrella. The argument they had after their first child was born, and how they cried together from exhaustion.

Sometimes Lan listened closely. Sometimes her eyes drifted. But Huy kept telling them, as if repeating the stories could anchor her to the world—and to him.

One afternoon, while folding laundry, Lan suddenly said, “I think I was happy.”

Huy stopped. “You were. You are.”

She frowned. “I don’t remember why.”

He walked over and held her hands. “Because you loved, and you were loved.”

That night, Huy lay awake, staring at the ceiling. He wondered what would happen when she no longer recognized him at all. Whether love could still exist if only one person remembered it.

The answer came unexpectedly.

One morning, Lan refused to eat breakfast. She pushed the bowl away, confused and frustrated.

“I don’t know where I am,” she said, her voice shaking.

Huy knelt beside her chair. “You’re home. I’m here.”

She looked at him, fear in her eyes. Then, slowly, her expression softened.

“I don’t know who you are,” she said. “But I feel safe with you.”

Huy felt tears rise, but he didn’t let them fall. He smiled instead. “That’s enough.”

From then on, he stopped correcting her. When she mistook him for a brother, a friend, or simply “that kind man,” he accepted it. He focused on what remained—her laughter when he made jokes, her calm when he held her hand, her trust when he guided her through the day.

Their children visited often. Sometimes they cried quietly in the kitchen, watching their father help Lan put on her shoes, repeating instructions gently, endlessly.

One evening, as the sun set, Lan leaned against Huy’s shoulder.

“You’re very patient,” she said.

“I’m just returning the favor,” he replied.

She looked up at him. “Did I take care of you once?”

“All the time.”

She nodded, satisfied.

Years later, when Lan could no longer speak, Huy still told her stories. He didn’t know if she understood the words. But he knew she understood the warmth in his voice.

And that, he realized, was what marriage truly meant.

Not the vows spoken clearly on one day long ago.

But the promise, kept quietly, even when memory fades—
to stay, to care, and to love, for as long as love can still be felt.