A diminished reflection on first love from an old age. This short story was written under timed exam conditions.

My sweethart <Tab/>2375, that was her number, her diminishing identity. Her eyes lay barren unable to comprehend her surroundings. The hospital was hot and stuffy from the midday heat. The windowless wards were quiet, except for Mrs Rogers sticky breathing and the buzzing drone of Mr Finn's life support next door. Everything in this wing had fallen silent in the sickly claws of time. It wasn't a pleasant sleep they slept. …

…to move around, Harriet was never sure where. He never came back, like many others, but this was different. This was the only one who Harriet truly loved. <Tab/>The hospital was compressing. It crushed all life, all hope. Even the memory of love was fading for number 2375, as unknown relatives sit squeezing her hand. Her mind has been lost. Just another who has fallen into the arms of old age.