I woke up to quiet—no messages, no gifts, no phone calls. My home is a small room above an old hardware store, furnished with just a bed, a kettle, and a chair by the window.
That window is my favorite spot. I sit there and watch the buses go by.
At the bakery, the young woman behind the counter didn’t seem to recognize me, though I come in every week.
I told her it was my birthday. She gave me a polite smile.
I bought a small vanilla cake with strawberries and had them write, “Happy 97th, Mr. L.” on it.
Back at home, I lit a candle, cut a slice of cake, and waited. For what, I wasn’t sure.
