It was the third Sunday of the month.

Nightfall entered the day room with flowers and board games, a smile on his face. He introduced himself, as he always did. Every time, to the same aged, lined faces. He smiled, sitting, and began.

Each one got his full attention. He listened, often to stories he'd heard before, asking questions, making comments. Sometimes touching a wrinkled, liver-spotted hand to emphasize a point, or sympathize.

The day progressed, and here, among the forgotten, Nightfall was home. Lives lived and lost, their owners still breathing; loves faded and forgotten.

Forgotten wasn't the right word. Stolen.

Although their lives were stolen by the ravages of a disease upon their minds and memories, they were the same. The same as him.

The Thief of Always.

As orange lances speared the room announcing the end of the day, he rose, going to each, taking time to bid them farewell individually, promising to return.

He made his way out, smiling and waving to the staff that had come to recognize him, moving to the end of the line of people checking out. Fathers, daughters, wives, husbands, children. Most stared blankly, still shell-shocked at what had become of their loved one. Other wept openly. Nightfall felt their sorrow... felt it...

...reached out...

...and took it.

Some of these people would not be here next time, and he despised them for it. He had seen it, and would see it again: those that gave up, or simply couldn't handle the truth, that didn't care enough.

They didn't deserve their sorrow.

He would return, though.

Always.

To the forgotten; to commemorate the stolen.