He had always done things his own way. 

There were stories. A trip to Australia. A rental car that broke down in the middle of nowhere. A phone that went unanswered for days.

The kind of adventures that become family legends. And somehow, even when life became smaller, he remained recognisably himself.

The dogs got biscuits they were not supposed to have. The local cat found his way to his door and stayed.

The birds were always looked after and, when dementia came, he bought enough bird food to last a season, just to make sure.

He had been a language teacher. He could lose himself in books, films, and conversation. He was proud of his garden.

We wrote letters to each other. For a while they arrived regularly.

Full of warmth.

Full of him.

Then the letters started to change. And eventually they stopped.

This project is about the time we had. The friendship that grew in the space the illness left.

The sunflower competitions.

The cat that was fed more often than either of us would admit.

The birds.

The garden.

The jam biscuits.

The small rituals that became ours.

For many people, dementia is a story of loss.

For me, it was a story of friendship.

And, quietly, of saying goodbye.

What follows is a small archive of a friendship.