In a dark room, she waits.
It’s been 365 days, but she wonders if he’ll make it. After all it’s just an arbitrary day, made important by numbers standing upright on the mantel piece, floating in foil and hanging from the walls.
She wonders if he even cares. It’s just an arbitrary day, made special by ritual; of blowing out candles, giving gifts and expecting someone’s presence.
He won’t remember.
A knock at the door.
Heart lifting like the helium balloons and face warming like the candles on her cake, she holds her breath and opens the door.
“Happy Birthday!”