No birthday cards in the mailbox.
No phone calls.
Not even a wrong number.

Just another silent morning in the small room I rent above an old hardware store that shut down years ago. The landlord keeps my rent low—perhaps out of gratitude, because last winter I repaired his heater when pipes were close to bursting.

My room is modest: a narrow bed, a kettle, and a window facing the street.
That window is my anchor to the world. I sit beside it and watch buses crawl past, and it feels as though my own time moves with them—slowly, steadily, without pause.

Late in the morning, I walked down to the neighborhood bakery.
Behind the counter stood a young woman who smiled politely, though clearly she didn’t recognize me, even though I stop by nearly every week for discounted bread.
I quietly mentioned that it was my birthday.
She simply said, “Oh—happy birthday,” with the same tone someone uses to say “bless you” to a stranger.

I chose a small vanilla cake topped with glossy strawberries and a thin layer of sugar glaze.
I asked them to write:

“Happy 97th, Mr. L.”

It felt slightly foolish to say it aloud, but I didn’t retract the request.
After all, ninety-seven isn’t an age a person reaches every day.

When I returned to my room, I placed the cake on an old wooden crate that serves as my table.
I lit a single candle.
I sat down.
And I waited. For what, I’m not sure.

My son, Eliot, hasn’t called in years.
Our last conversation ended badly—something careless I said about his wife, and then silence. He hung up, and with him went every address and every future moment.
Since then: no calls, no letters, no reconciliation.
Just a thick, heavy quiet.

I cut myself a slice of cake. It was soft, light, sweet.
For a few seconds, I felt less ancient, less alone.

Then I took out my old flip phone, snapped a picture of the cake, and sent it to the number still saved under the name “Eliot.”

Along with the photo, I typed: “Happy birthday to me.”

The phone stayed silent.
Outside, the world kept moving—children shouting, cars passing, someone laughing, someone cursing. Life, loud and stubborn, refused to wait for me.

Then suddenly, my phone vibrated once.

I opened the message.

“Who is this?”

No name.
No warmth.
Just a cold, unfamiliar question.

I wrote back:

“This is your father. You used to call me—long ago.”

The waiting that followed felt endless.
I caught my reflection in the window: a thin old man with pale skin and tired eyes, waiting for something he wasn’t sure he believed in anymore.

Then the reply came:

“My father died eight years ago. Do not message this number again.”

I didn’t move for a long time.
It wasn’t the harshness of the words that struck me—it was the truth underneath them.
For eight years, my son has existed in a world where I am buried. Someone told him I was gone. Someone closed the book on me without my knowledge.

And in a way, for him, I really was dead.
Erased.
Nonexistent.

Finally, I typed:

“I’m sorry. I thought this was still his number. If his father were alive, maybe he would have called today. Have a good day.”

No reply came.
And I knew none would.

I blew out the candle.
A thin thread of smoke rose upward and vanished, the way unsaid apologies and unfinished conversations do.

I returned to the window and watched strangers hurry by—arms full of groceries, bags, barking dogs, babies in strollers.
They all belonged somewhere.
I wasn’t sure I did anymore.

Then someone knocked at my door.
A single firm knock that broke through the stillness of the room.

I opened it.
A slender mail carrier stood there with a large bag.

“Are you Mr. L.?” he asked.

I nodded.

He handed me an envelope.
A real paper letter—not a bill, not an advertisement, not a notification.

Before I could say a word, he was already heading down the stairs.

I sat on the edge of my bed.
The envelope was slightly yellowed, the name written in neat penmanship.

I opened it.
Inside was just one sheet of paper.

“If you are alive and reading this, know that I tried to find you.
I was told you had passed away, but I refused to believe it. I searched, asked questions, looked everywhere—without success.
I’m writing to this address because it is the last one I have for you.
If this letter reaches you, please answer.
You are still my father, despite everything.
— E. L.”

The page trembled in my hands.
This was not the distant, cold message from the phone.
This was real, human, breathing.

I looked at the date in the corner.

The letter was seven years old.

Seven years it had traveled—from sorting rooms to sacks, from warehouses to forgotten shelves—and it arrived on the very day I nearly believed I’d been wiped out of the world entirely.