It felt hollow, yet it meant everything.
Vera rode the number 73 bus through the snow-covered streets of Birmingham, staring blankly at the fogged window, her fingers tight around a plastic bag with the faded logo of a discount supermarket. Inside lay a small cake, its label reading “Tenderness”—a cruel irony when the world outside was cold, her heart silent, and the day grey as slate.
Today, she turned thirty-three. Not a single call. No messages from those who mattered. Her phone held only two adverts, a missed delivery notice, and a birthday greeting from a university friend she hadn’t seen in fifteen years—a generic e-card with a smiley face. That was all. The day had passed as if it belonged to someone else, in another flat, another life.
“You getting off?” an elderly woman asked. Vera blinked, nodded, and stepped out into the familiar neighbourhood of her childhood.
The park was unchanged—the peeling swings, the tilted benches, the old oak with its hollow where they’d once hidden from thunderstorms. It was all so familiar, yet none of it felt like hers. As if the past remained, but she no longer belonged.
Her mother lived on the third floor, door never locked, always waiting. No need for reminders.
“Oh, you’ve come… and brought a cake,” her mother remarked, as though that were the only thing worth noting.
The kitchen smelled of roast potatoes and warm bread. The old clock ticked faintly, a dull reminder that time moved even when life stood still. Dust motes drifted in the fading evening light.
“How are you?” her mother asked, back turned at the sink.
“Alright,” Vera replied automatically. Then, after a pause: “As if nothing’s really there.”
They ate in silence. Her mother, as always, had served too much—her love measured in ladles and glances just past. She fussed over which knife to cut the cake with, as though the right choice might make a wish come true.
“Happy birthday, love,” she said softly, almost shyly.
“Thanks.”
“You carry on. That’s what matters.”
“Must I?” Vera kept her eyes down.
Her mother turned. Her gaze held no judgment—just the quiet understanding of those who’d known weariness and pain.
“Sometimes, no. But we do anyway.”
After dinner, Vera stepped onto the balcony. Below, children chased a ball, shouting, laughing. In the flats around her, lives unfolded—someone cooking, another arguing, music blaring. Amidst the noise of strangers, she felt something inside her loosen, thawing like ice she’d carried for years, warm drops bleeding back into her veins.
On the bus home, she folded the empty cake bag into her coat pocket. The smell of damp wool and wet pavement filled the air. Passengers dozed, stared at phones, held each other. The world lived. Without her, too.
Her flat was silent. She shrugged off her coat, dropped her bag on the footstool, then noticed something by the door—a small, real paper card. In uneven script, it read: *”You do more than you know. You’re here. Happy birthday.”*
No name. No clue who’d left it. Yet for the first time in years, she smiled—just slightly, but real. As if someone had seen past the mask, the polite nods, the everyday act. Seen *her*.
And suddenly, it was enough. This small, nameless thing.
Maybe this was life—not fireworks, not a hundred wishes. Just a quiet moment when you’re alone, and still, someone reaches out. Silent. But real.
As if nothing. Yet somehow—everything.
