Today’s my 97th birthday. I woke up with no candles, no cards, no phone calls. I live in a small room above a closed-down hardware store. The landlord doesn’t charge me much, mostly because I fixed his plumbing last winter. Not much in here besides a creaky bed, a kettle, and my chair by the window. That window’s my favorite—it lets me watch the buses go by.

I walked to the bakery two blocks down. The girl behind the counter smiled like she didn’t recognize me, even though I come in every week for day-old bread. I told her, “Today’s my birthday,” and she said, “Oh, happy birthday,” like she was reading it off a cue card. I bought a small cake. Vanilla with strawberries. I even had them write “Happy 97th, Mr. L.” on it. Felt silly asking for it, but I did.

Back in my room, I set it on the crate I use as a table. Lit a single candle. Sat down, and waited. I don’t know why I expected anyone to come. My son, Eliot, hasn’t called in five years. Last time we spoke, I said something about how his wife talked down to me. Maybe I shouldn’t have. He hung up, and that was that. No calls, no visits. I don’t even know where he lives now. I cut myself a slice. The cake was good. Sweet, soft, fresh. I took a photo of it with my old flip phone. Sent it to the number I still had saved under “Eliot.” Just wrote: Happy birthday to me.

Then I stared at the screen, waiting to see if those little dots would appear.

They didn’t. I sat there for a while. Ate another slice. The frosting was a bit too sweet, but I liked how the strawberries weren’t frozen like the ones I get from the market. Then I looked at my phone again. I figured that was it. Maybe the number had changed. Maybe he blocked me. I’d probably never know. So I shuffled over to the window, sat in my chair, and watched a bus hiss to a stop across the street. A mother helped her toddler up the steps. A young man in a suit held the door for her. It was quiet again after that.

About an hour later, I heard a knock. Three soft taps on the door downstairs. No one knocks anymore. I grabbed my cardigan and made my way down. My knees don’t like stairs much these days, but I got there. When I opened the front door, there was a teenage girl standing there. Probably 14, maybe 15. Curly hair, a red backpack, and nervous eyes.