The green bedroom door opens and the rusted hinges moan. She glides across the small third floor room, watching as her breath fogs in chilly night air.
Outside in the darkness, the wind howls like a wounded animal. Rain pelts against the bedroom window.
There’s always a violent storm on his birthday, she remembers.
She places his homemade cake on the shaky wooden table and lights a lone candle. When she exits the empty room, the flame will still be lit, the cake still untouched.
And by morning, the table will be bare again. It always is.
Happy birthday, kiddo.
The Weekday One Hundred 