In a room above an old hardware store that hasn’t seen a customer in a decade, a man sits by the window. Not much happens outside—just buses passing and people with places to be. But that window is his favorite thing. That window is his clock.

This morning, like most mornings, began in silence. The kind of silence that isn’t just quiet, but empty. The kind of silence that doesn’t greet you—it ignores you.

Today is his 97th birthday.

No calls. No cards. No knock at the door. Not even the landlord, who usually taps twice on his way up the stairs, said anything.

“Happy Birthday, Mr. L”
He walked to the bakery—about three blocks if you count the cracked sidewalks and potholes. He goes there most weeks for day-old rolls, the kind they pack in a brown paper bag and sell for cheap.

The girl behind the counter is new. Polite, clean apron, name tag flipped backward. She smiled when he walked in, but not the kind of smile you give someone you know.

He told her, almost shyly, “It’s my birthday today.”

She blinked, smiled again—this time with a little tilt of the head—and said, “Oh, happy birthday,” like someone saying Bless you to a stranger who sneezes on a bus.

He nodded. Bought a small vanilla cake with strawberries. Asked her to write “Happy 97th, Mr. L.” in icing.

“You want that written on the cake?”

“Yes, please.”

She didn’t ask who Mr. L was. She didn’t need to.

A Candle and a Flip Phone
Back in his room, he placed the cake on an old crate he uses as a table. Pulled a candle from a drawer—a stub from last year, maybe the year before. Lit it. Watched the flame sway in the light from the window.

He sat for a while. Just sat. Not sure what he was waiting for. Maybe a phone call. Maybe footsteps on the stairs. Maybe a miracle.

His son hasn’t spoken to him in years.

Eliot. His only child. The last time they talked, there were words—careless ones. He had said something about Eliot’s wife. Nothing terrible, but enough to leave a bruise. Eliot hung up. That was it. No more calls. No forwarding address. Just silence.

He doesn’t even know if Eliot has the same number anymore.

Still, he took out his old flip phone. The kind with the scratched screen and the keypad worn smooth. He snapped a picture of the cake. Wrote two sentences:

“Happy birthday to me.”

And hit send.

No typing dots. No read receipt. Just digital quiet, floating into space.

What We Hope For
He ate a slice of cake. It was good—light and sweet. One of the better ones, actually.

Then he put the rest back in the box, closed it neatly, and set it on the windowsill. Maybe the landlord’s kids would like a piece later.

As the sun dipped behind the building across the street, he sat by the window, watching the buses pass, like seconds on a clock that doesn’t care who’s watching.

He thought about all the things he should’ve said. The apologies he rehearsed but never made. The way a single comment—intended or not—can grow into a wall between people.

But also, he thought about love. The stubborn kind. The kind that sends birthday texts into the dark, even when it knows there may never be a reply.

We Don’t Know His First Name
To the bakery girl, he’s just Mr. L. To the landlord, he’s the old guy who fixed the pipes last winter. To Eliot—well, maybe he’s still “Dad.” Maybe not.

But to us, he’s someone else now.

He’s the person who reminded us what quiet grief looks like, how loneliness wears a polite face, and how a birthday can be both a celebration and a soft heartbreak.

Somewhere, maybe tonight, Eliot will check his phone. Maybe he’ll read the message. Maybe he’ll delete it. Maybe he won’t.

But maybe—just maybe—he’ll remember the way vanilla cake tastes, or how his dad used to fix things with his hands, or how time moves like buses on a street that never stops.

And maybe, before it’s too late, he’ll call.