I awoke on my 97th birthday without presents, greetings, or telephone calls.

My residence sits above an out-of-business hardware shop. My landlord keeps the rent low, primarily because I repaired his pipes during the previous winter. The space contains little except a worn-out bed, a water heater, and my seat near the window. That window remains my cherished spot—it allows me to observe the buses passing by.

I strolled to the pastry shop two streets away. The assistant smiled as if she didn’t know me, despite my weekly visits for discounted bread. I mentioned, “It’s my birthday today,” and she replied, “Oh, happy birthday,” in a rehearsed manner.

I purchased a small pastry. Vanilla with red berries. I even requested they inscribe “Happy 97th, Mr. L.” on top. Requesting this felt embarrassing, but I proceeded anyway.

Returning to my quarters, I placed it on the box I use as a dining surface. I ignited one candle. I took my seat and waited.

I’m uncertain why I thought anyone would arrive. My boy, Eliot, hasn’t reached out in five years. During our last conversation, I commented about his spouse’s condescending attitude toward me. Perhaps I should have stayed quiet. He ended the call abruptly, and that concluded matters. No communication, no appearances. I’m unaware of his current location.

I sliced a piece for myself. The pastry tasted delicious. Sugary, tender, newly made.

I captured an image with my basic mobile phone. Transmitted it to the contact saved as “Eliot.” Simply wrote: Happy birthday to me.

Then I watched the screen, hoping for a response indicator.

None appeared.

I remained seated briefly. Consumed a second piece. The icing tasted overly sweet, but I enjoyed the fresh berries compared to the frozen ones from my usual store. I checked my device again.

Still no answer.

I assumed that concluded matters. Perhaps his number changed. Perhaps he blocked my calls. I might never discover the truth.

I moved slowly to the window, settled in my chair, and watched a bus stop across the road. A parent assisted her young child up the steps. A businessman held the entrance open for her. Silence followed afterward.

Approximately sixty minutes later, I heard knocking. Three gentle taps on the lower entrance.

Nobody knocks anymore.

I grabbed my sweater and descended. My joints struggle with stairs these days, but I managed. Opening the front entrance revealed a young female teenager. Approximately 14 or 15 years old. Spiral hair, a crimson backpack, and anxious expression.

“Are you Mr. L?” she inquired.

I confirmed with a nod, puzzled.

“I’m Soraya. Um… I believe I’m your granddaughter.”

I genuinely felt my heart pause.

She retrieved her mobile device, displayed the message I had sent. Evidently, Eliot maintained the number—but the device now belonged to her. He had given her the outdated flip phone “for emergency situations,” and she discovered my text while organizing the message storage.

She explained, “I informed my father. He instructed me not to answer. But… I decided to visit you regardless.”

I remained speechless. I stood motionless like a stunned person, my mouth agape.

“I carried something with me,” she continued, opening her school bag. She extracted a greeting card, homemade with azure marker and decorative paper hearts. The inscription read, Happy Birthday, Grandpa. I hope I’m not too delayed in meeting you.

I simply collapsed. Right at the entrance. Not with loud sobs. Just silent tears, similar to a tap incompletely closed.

I welcomed her inside. We positioned ourselves on my unstable mattress, finished the remaining cake together. She revealed her passion for artwork and her persistent curiosity about her paternal relatives. I described Eliot during his childhood—how he applied tomato sauce to his morning eggs and wore unmatched stockings throughout his second school year.

Prior to her departure, she captured a photograph of us together on her telephone. Mentioned she intended to print and display it on her wall.

“May I return next weekend?” she requested, positioned at the exit.

I affirmed with a gesture, still uncertain about controlling my voice.

After her departure, I continued standing at that spot extensively, observing her crimson backpack bounce until she vanished around the street corner.

That evening, my phone signaled.

A fresh communication. From an unknown sender.

The text simply stated: Thank you for showing kindness to her. —E.

I examined that message extensively as well.

Existence rarely provides complete conclusions. Occasionally, it delivers minimal possibilities.

And perhaps that suffices.

If this narrative affected you slightly, distribute it. You cannot predict who requires a reminder to establish contact before opportunities expire. ❤️