I remember that morning like a photograph faded at the edges. The village was still half-asleep, the air sharp enough to sting my nose, and Eli woke with the kind of quiet hope only children have on birthdays. He padded outside in socks too thin for the mud and found a tiny cake on the low kitchen table—two candles standing crooked on top, their flames wobbling in the cold.
His sweater had holes at the cuffs and his boots were more mud than sole, but his smile was bright enough to make the whole house feel warmer. His mother’s hands trembled as she placed the cake in front of him; she smoothed the paper plate and whispered that love didn’t need wrapping, only presence. Eli said thank you like a promise, and when he blew out the candles his wish was small and clear: to be remembered.
No guests came. No cars slowed at the gate. The rooster crowed and the world carried on, but in that little cottage two flames burned as if they could keep the cold out. At night she tucked him in and told him he was her gift; he slept with that warmth tucked into him, learning that even the smallest celebrations can hold everything worth keeping
