My name is Winston, and today is my birthday.
There is a small candle burning in front of me, pressed into a little piece of meat on a plate. The flame shakes whenever someone walks past, but I keep watching it carefully.
I know I am supposed to look happy.
Birthdays usually mean laughter, warm hands, and voices saying your name as though you are the most important creature in the room.
But the chair across from me is empty.
Last year, my person sat there.
He laughed when I tried to steal my treat before the candle was blown out. He scratched the folds above my nose and called me his “serious little birthday boy.”
I remember his hands.
I remember his voice.
I remember waiting beneath his chair for pieces of food he pretended to drop by accident.
Then, one morning, he left in a car with flashing lights.
Everyone told me he was sick.
No one told me he would not come home.
For months, I continued waiting beside the front door. Every sound in the driveway made me run. Every key turning in a nearby lock made my heart jump.
But the door always opened for someone else.
Today, his daughter placed the candle in front of me. She tried to smile, but her eyes were wet.
“Dad never missed your birthday,” she whispered. “So neither will I.”
She sat in his chair.
For a moment, I stared at her.
Then I looked at the empty space beside her, where his hand used to rest.
The room became quiet.
She began singing softly.
Halfway through the song, her voice broke.
I stepped down from my chair, walked around the table, and placed my head on her knee.
She covered her face and cried into my fur.
The candle continued burning behind us.
Neither of us made a wish.
We already wanted the same impossible thing.
After a while, she wiped her tears and said, “He would want you to eat your birthday dinner.”
I returned to the table, but before taking the first bite, I looked once more toward the empty chair.
Then I lowered my head.
The candle went out in the soft breath from my nose.
Everyone said it was only an accident.
But she held me tightly and whispered, “I think he heard you.”
That night, I slept beside her instead of waiting at the door.
I still missed the man who had celebrated every birthday with me.
But I was beginning to understand that love does not disappear when a chair becomes empty.
Sometimes it remains in a trembling flame, a familiar song, and the person who chooses to sit beside you when both of you are grieving.
