I woke up to silence—no candles, no cards, no calls. I live above an old hardware store in a small room with a bed, a kettle, and a chair by the window. That window is my favorite. I watch buses go by. At the bakery, the girl didn’t recognize me, though I come every week. I told her it was my birthday. She smiled politely. I bought a small vanilla cake with strawberries and had them write “Happy 97th, Mr. L.” on it.

Back home, I lit a candle, cut a slice, and waited. I don’t know for what. I haven’t heard from my son Eliot in five years—not since I told him his wife talked down to me. He hung up, and that was it. I snapped a photo of the cake, sent it to his old number. Just wrote: Happy birthday to me. No reply. Not then. Not later. I fell asleep by the window.