Chapter 35 – The Birthday Without a Candle

Yuji Sakamoto had learned how to celebrate quietly.

No balloons.

No loud music.

No guests filling the room with noise that faded too fast.

Just enough. Always just enough.

The night before Mai’s birthday, Yuji stayed up after she fell asleep, sitting on the floor of the small kitchen with a notebook open in front of him. Numbers filled the page. Rent. Utilities. Shop supplies. School fees.

At the bottom, written smaller than everything else:

Cake. Candles. Gift.

He circled it once, then underlined it.

Mai turned six tomorrow.

Six years since she had entered his life screaming, fragile, and unaware that she would become the reason he survived.

Yuji glanced toward the bedroom.

Mai slept curled on her side, hugging the old stuffed rabbit she’d had since toddlerhood. Her breathing was soft and even. Peaceful.

“She’s getting big,” he murmured to himself.

He closed the notebook and stood quietly, careful not to make the floor creak. He adjusted the thin blanket over her shoulders, brushing her hair back gently.

“Happy birthday,” he whispered early, just in case.

The morning arrived with sunlight pushing through thin curtains.

Mai woke up before him.

Yuji felt a small weight land on his chest.

“Dad,” she whispered loudly. “It’s today.”

He smiled without opening his eyes. “I know.”

She beamed. “I’m six.”

“So old,” Yuji said, pretending to groan. “I can’t believe it.”

Mai giggled and jumped off the bed, running to the calendar taped to the wall. She crossed out the date with a pink marker and drew a crooked star.

Yuji watched her while making breakfast. Just rice, eggs, and miso soup. Simple. Familiar.

“Dad,” Mai said suddenly, spoon paused mid-air. “Can we light candles tonight?”

Yuji hesitated.

“…Yes,” he said. “Of course.”

Mai nodded, satisfied.

Then she added softly, “Can we light one extra?”

Yuji’s hand tightened around the chopsticks.

“For who?” he asked carefully.

Mai looked down at her bowl. “For my mama in heaven.”

The room went very quiet.

Yuji didn’t correct her.

He never did.

“…Okay,” he said after a moment. “One extra.”

Mai smiled, relieved, and continued eating.

Yuji stared at the steam rising from his soup until his chest stopped hurting.

Across the city, Aiko Hoshizora stared at the same date on her phone.

She sat in the backseat of a black car, heading to a drama meeting, script resting untouched on her lap. Her schedule assistant chatted about ratings and upcoming interviews.

Aiko heard none of it.

June 14.

Her fingers curled slowly.

She remembered the date without trying. She always had.

Six years ago, on this day, she had held a tiny hand for the first time. Six years ago, she had run away before learning how to be a mother.

Her throat tightened.

“Miss Hoshizora?” the assistant called gently. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Aiko replied automatically. “Just tired.”

She looked out the window.

A child walked past holding a balloon shaped like a star.

Aiko closed her eyes.

Yuji closed the shop early that day.

Not because business was slow. Not because he could afford to.

Because Mai’s birthday mattered more.

He picked her up from kindergarten himself.

“Dad!” Mai ran into his arms. “Teacher Saki said happy birthday!”

“Oh?” Yuji smiled. “Did she?”

“She said I’m brave and kind,” Mai said proudly.

Yuji nodded. “She’s right.”

They stopped by a small bakery. Yuji chose the simplest cake. Strawberry. White cream. Six small candles.

At home, Mai helped him place them carefully.

“Don’t forget the extra one,” she reminded.

He didn’t.

When night fell, Yuji turned off the lights.

The cake glowed softly.

“Make a wish,” he said.

Mai closed her eyes, hands clasped tightly.

“I wish,” she said seriously, “that Dad won’t be lonely.”

Yuji’s breath caught.

“And,” Mai added, “that Mama can see me grow.”

She blew out the candles.

Yuji clapped and smiled, but when he turned away, his eyes burned.

At the same time, Aiko stood alone on her balcony.

The city lights shimmered below.

She held a small gift box in her hands. A hairpin shaped like a rabbit. Wrapped neatly. Unsigned.

She had planned to send it.

She hadn’t.

Her phone buzzed.

A message notification from a news site:

Local single father praised for dedication ahead of daughter’s birthday

A still image loaded beneath.

Yuji.

Mai.

A cake.

Aiko pressed a hand to her mouth.

Her knees weakened.

“So she’s… six,” she whispered.

Tears slipped down her face without permission.

Far away, Yuji tucked Mai into bed.

“Did you have a good birthday?” he asked.

“The best,” Mai said sleepily. “Dad…?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think Mama heard my wish?”

Yuji looked at her for a long moment.

“…I think,” he said quietly, “if she’s anywhere at all… she heard it.”

Mai smiled and drifted off.

Yuji turned off the light.

Outside, the city kept moving.

And somewhere within it, two parents stood apart, thinking of the same child, on the same night, under the same sky—both believing, in different ways, that they had already lost her.