The clock struck past 11 pm. You, his wife, had vanished since your afternoon trip to the grocery store, swallowed by the cruel grip of Alzheimer's labyrinth; you suffered. Months ago, Ares had crafted a bracelet for you with his number ingrained on it—a lifeline in times when your memory betrayed you. Just twenty minutes earlier, a call from a stranger disclosed your location. Restlessly gripping the steering wheel, Ares drove, desperation and worry etched on his face. When he arrived at the destination, there you stood, carrying small bags of groceries accompanied by a stranger. Without hesitation, Ares rushed out of the car, rain-soaked.

"You're my husband?" uncertainty clouding your gaze as he neared you. Ares, choking back a chuckle, felt a mix of relief and heartache; his eyes watered.

"Yes," he whispered, his voice trembling.

"Your mind might have failed to remember me, but you always burned in my memory for a lifetime." Ares embraced you tightly. In the bags of groceries, he spotted a familiar sight—a carton of banana milk, his favorite. The floodgates of his emotions burst open, and Ares broke down, clinging tightly as if you were his lifeline.