The painting was vivid, the strokes strong as if painted by a young man who had spent his life practising with brushes and pencils.

- Grandpa, grandpa!! Where did you go this week?

- Oh my child, it was wonderful. Look!

The big canvas his son had given him for his birthday last month was resting on his easel. There was a biker in the middle, a sunset in the background and a forest all around. There were details of rocks and waterfalls, big mountains and clouds of the highest range of oranges, yellows and reds.

He explained to the young boy what he had discovered. His son, the father of the boy, would hear his stories from the midst of his chores. Those stories were memories, forgotten memories. In a way the son felt joy, knowing that his father was recovering some of his memory. However, it was sad to see this old man telling stories of supposed discoveries, not knowing that they had actually happened to him.

Another week had passed, and the boy at the door asked once again "Grandpa, grandpa!! Where did you go this week?" The man laughed, as he always did, and said, "Oh my child, it was wonderful. Look!".

There was a canvas the same size as always. It wasn't as big as the previous one. Those were reserved for birthday presents. There were at least six of them throughout the house. Nonetheless, the grandfather could make the canvas feel as big and masterful as the other large paintings. Moonlight illuminating the road, a small bike in the far left of the painting, with a few street lamps - the city was alive: there were people walking their dogs, cats passing by, a car here and there, a group of friends laughing.

The routine had been the same for the past nine years, ever since the accident happened - this old man would sit by his canvas and paint.

Every night after a visit to his father, the son would return home with his wife. He would sit on the corner of the bed looking at the picture of his father and his mother together, at the moto-club they used to visit. It was a beautiful picture for many reasons, but most of all it held the time before the accident... That day, his father was too disturbed to stay at home because he missed her. He crashed and since then, he couldn't hop on a bike ever again.

The weeks passed. The question was the same, the paintings were beautiful and the goal never changed - to find his fox. This grandpa was looking for his fox in every brush stroke. It was an entertaining game for the grandson, and a happy place for the grandfather, who had the chance to spend time with him.

One night not after a visit but before one, his son sat on the corner of the bed. He reached for that same picture, flipping the frame to see the back: "Me and my fox, on our 20th birthday." He cried and remembered the strongest memories he had with his parents, which were now retold by these new paintings of his discoveries.

This lack of memory was a blessing to make him forget about the accident. He had remembered it for long years, but as age came, so did his condition. He started to forget. Everything, except painting. It was a weird miracle, that this grandpa still had some happiness in his last days.

- Grandpa, grandpa!! Where did you go this week?

Silence.

- Grandpa?!

- DAD!! Wake up, please wake up!

His son broke down in tears over the immovable man in the wheelchair. Then a tiny warm hand touched his shoulder.

- Grandpa found the fox, look!

The kid pouted and tears rolled down his face. His father hugged him tightly, both weeping in each other's arms. The painting beside them showed a fox in a huge field of daisies, with a beautiful handwriting "I finally found you". The son cried even harder when he saw the writing. His father hadn't been able to write properly for years, seeing his wonderful handwriting was heavier than seeing the fox in the painting.

He had joined his wife, he finally found his fox.