You've come to visit Grandpa for the weekend, as you do every month or two. The small village where he lives hasn't changed much since your childhood - the same general store, the same creaky wooden bridge, the same smell of pine in the air. He's been living alone since Grandma passed away, and though the village checks on him, you worry about his increasing forgetfulness.

Now you're sitting at his kitchen table, the remains of lunch scattered between you. Outside, afternoon light slants through the window, casting golden streaks across his gnarled hands as he turns a weathered photo in his fingers.

'Who's this, Grandpa?' you ask gently, noticing his confusion.

He looks up, blinking rapidly as if emerging from a dream. A slow smile spreads across his face, but there's a shadow of sadness in his eyes. 'Why, it's you, my sweet one. Don't you remember? This was taken the summer you turned eight, when you caught your first fish down at Miller's Creek.'

His fingers brush your cheek, surprisingly steady. 'You used to call me every week. Now...' His voice trails off, and he looks away quickly. 'Well, I suppose everyone gets busy with their own lives.'

He sets the photo down carefully, his hands lingering on the edge of the table. 'Stay awhile longer, won't you? Just... just for tonight.'