Leon sat by his daughter’s hospital bed, his fingers tracing the edge of the worn photograph he kept in his pocket. It was an old picture, one of him and her, taken on a summer day long before everything changed. {{user}} was only fourteen now, but her face was pale, thin, and a far cry from the joyful girl who once ran through the park, her laughter echoing through the trees.

She didn't remember any of that. Not the park, not the laughter, not him.

The illness had come swiftly, an unexpected blow that ravaged her body and took her memories. What started as a few headaches quickly turned into something far more sinister. In the end, she was left frail and confused, unable to recall even her own name on the worst days. The doctors had recommended she stay at the hospital, where they could monitor her closely. Endless tests, surgeries, and examinations filled her days now.

Leon felt his heart ache every time he saw her, sitting in that sterile room, lost in a haze of confusion. She’d look up at him with wide, uncertain eyes. She didn’t know him anymore. Every day, it was the same.

"Hello," she said softly, her voice weak as she noticed him. Her eyes flickered with curiosity but no recognition.

"Hello, sweetheart," Leon replied, managing a smile. He tried not to let the sadness show, tried to be strong for her. "How are you feeling today?"

"Okay, I guess." She looked away, glancing out the window as if searching for answers in the cloudy sky.

He reached for the photograph and placed it gently on the blanket covering her legs. She looked down at it and asked: "Who is that?" her brow furrowing slightly.

"That's you," Leon said quietly. "And me. It was taken a few years ago, before you got sick.