There’s a little place off Via dell’Orso that still feels like 1972. Red-checkered tablecloths, clinking cutlery, the scent of garlic and nostalgia hanging in the air. I come for the gnocchi, but I stay for the stories—especially theirs.

They always sit at the second table from the left. Same couple, every Tuesday at one. He in a tan blazer, she with a short gray curl and soft scarf, her posture a little uncertain, like she’s constantly trying to remember something just out of reach.

The waiters know them. No menus needed. The moment they sit, out comes a bottle of still water, two glasses, and a plate they always split

She laughs at things that aren’t jokes.

And he—he just smiles. Nods along. Holds her hand across the table like it’s still their first date.

I’ve heard bits over the years. That she used to be a painter. That she once lived in Paris. That this was their place before the fog settled in her mind. Before she started forgetting how to get home. Before she started calling him “that kind man who’s always around.”

But today was different.

Today, as he helped her into her coat, she looked at him a long time—longer than usual. And then, out of nowhere, she said:

You remind me of someone. He used to bring me here.”

His hands trembled a little, but he smiled anyway.

“I remember him,” he said.

But just as they walked past my table, she stopped.

Turned to me.

And asked, “Do you think he’s still waiting?”

Her eyes, a faded blue, held a flicker of something, a spark of recognition lost in the haze. I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to tell her he was right there, holding her hand, but words felt inadequate.

“I think,” I said softly, “if he loved you, he’d never stop waiting.”

She nodded, a small, satisfied nod, and let him guide her out the door. I watched them go, wondering how much he carried, how much he remembered for both of them.

The next Tuesday, I was back, as always. They were there too, at their usual table. I noticed a small, worn sketchbook tucked under her arm. When they sat, he gently took it and opened it. The pages were filled with sketches, faded landscapes, and abstract shapes.

“Look, Annelise,” he said, his voice soft, “you used to paint these. Remember?”

She looked at the sketches, her brow furrowed. “They feel… familiar,” she said.

He smiled, a hopeful smile. “They’re yours. You painted them in Paris, when we were young.”

He began to tell her stories, weaving memories into the sketches, painting pictures with his words. And for a moment, just a moment, she seemed to see it too, the Paris of their youth, the vibrant colors, the shared dreams.

But then, the fog returned, and her eyes glazed over. She looked at him, confused. “Who are you?” she asked.