She was an old woman looking at a photograph. That was all it was; two tired, wrinkled hands, barely having the strength to keep the small flap in place. Her eyes looked glazed, but they always did now, though she was staring deeply at the photo. They all thought her memory would be faded, like her skin, but in her eyes blazed days that had once been. She wanted to remember his name, that was all. It was why they had brought the photo to her, she had asked and they had dug up what they could. He had been her brother once, the one who would come and go as they pleased and would make her smile and laugh and feel like they had always known you. He was like a brother until he had disappeared. She shouldn't of doubted it, he never had a proper home, he was a stray boy. But she always called him brother, as if he really was. She couldn't remember his real name. He smiled in the photo, and she saw herself there too. Both young. She leaned closer, as if it would tell her. He had that mischievous smile that he always wore, that he had put on her soon enough to. She remembered the first time they meet, they shook hands, she introduced herself, he said... She looked up from the photo and smiled, remembering what he said,

"Names don't matter, but memories last."