Today marks my 97th birthday. I woke up to no candles, no cards, and no phone calls.

I live in a small room above an abandoned hardware store. There’s not much here except for a creaky bed, a kettle, and my chair by the window. That window’s my favorite part—it lets me watch the buses passing by.

I decided to walk to the bakery just two blocks away. I told the girl behind the counter, “Today’s my birthday,” and she said, “Oh, happy birthday,” like she was just reading it from a script.

I bought a small cake, vanilla with strawberries. I even had them write “Happy 97th, Mr. L.” on it. I felt a little silly asking, but I did anyway.

Back in my room, I placed the cake on the crate I use as a table. I lit a single candle, sat down, and waited.

I’m not sure why I expected anyone to show up. My son, Eliot, hasn’t called in five years. The last time we spoke, I had mentioned how his wife spoke down to me. He hung up, and that was the end of it.

I cut a slice for myself. The cake was good—sweet, soft, fresh. I took a photo with my old flip phone and sent it to the number saved under “Eliot,” writing only: Happy birthday to me.

Then I stared at the screen, waiting for those dots to appear. But they didn’t. I assumed that was it. Maybe he’d changed his number. Maybe he blocked me.

I shuffled over to the window, sat in my chair, and watched as a bus stopped across the street.  About an hour later, I heard a knock. Three gentle taps on the door downstairs.

When I opened the front door, I saw a teenage girl standing there. She looked around 14 or 15, with curly hair, a red backpack, and eyes filled with uncertainty.

“Are you Mr. L?” she asked.

I nodded, confused.