He could always tell what day it was by the stillness that lingered in the air. Hushed words from downstairs, and Judith's careful footsteps against the bare floors as she called for her mother. Edward didn't want to leave his bed. When he glanced over, he saw that Andrew felt the same — eyes half-open, his body numb.

It was George's birthday.

"Another quiet night," Andrew muttered, his voice low and rough. He tried to sit up but faltered, his bad arm refusing to help.

Edward nodded. Before George married Florence, the younger brothers had shared a bed. George had been a restless sleeper — he mumbled in his sleep, had random spurts of laughter, and kicked away the sheets.

It was like the silence had taken George's place.

...

By noon, the family reached the hill full of fond memories. The wind pressed against them with each step. At the top, a single tree, thick and bare, its branches stripped of the autumn-brown leaves that danced in the wind. 

Judith giggled as her mother's scarf waved in the wind, holding her hand tightly. Everyone was dressed in muted colours — except Judith. The white bows paired perfectly with her dress. A sky blue that matched George's wedding tie. 

Beside him, his mother clung to him tight. She hadn't spoken the entire walk. Facing the day they lost George was a day full of tremendous feelings, but his birthday held the greatest weight. It was meant to be a day of warmth and happiness, celebrating and sharing love. But the joy was gone, and it became a day of mourning and remembrance. The loss of a son, a brother, a husband — a father.

It could never be the same.

The hilltop wind no longer carried George's laughter. It whistled through the gaps in the tree where he had once carved their initials.

A tear fell down his mother's cheek. Edward adjusted the bouquet in his arms — a delicate collection of white wildflowers and forget-me-nots. Nancy had prepared them herself.

"I had planned to include tulips..." Her voice had been hesitant.

Edward had shaken his head. "George would love these," he'd answered her quietly with a strained voice. His fingertips had traced the blue petals, remembering how George used to spot hidden flowers in the woods. He loved the small, bright ones that poked out from behind the trees.

When he reached for his coins, Nancy caught his hand. "It's my gift," she whispered, her thumb stroking the faint scar on his hand. Her eyes glistened. "If you need someone to listen, you know where to find me."

His free hand fidgeted, pulling at a loose thread on his trousers. It unsettled him. Nancy was honest about her feelings, even grief. She had confessed she still made her brother's breakfast and aired his bedroom each morning out of habit. If she broke her routines, she feared she would lose him entirely.

"Me too." Edward had replied softly, seeing her reddening eyes. "Whatever you may feel, I shall listen."

Her embrace startled him. A firm yet trembling hug, her tears wetting his shirt. He could feel the heat of her uneven breaths and muttered words of thanks. It felt awkward to hold her; he hesitated, unsure what to do. He only relaxed as his head rested in the crook of her neck. It felt natural — and yet, he was reminded of the warmth he felt with Samuel.

This time, his heart did not race. The stillness made him wonder what was missing — and why his chest couldn't act as intended.

"Uncle Ed! We need to give Daddy his flowers!"

Judith pulled him back. She waved a handful of daisies to the sky and the sun pierced through the clouds, shining down on them both. Edward liked to think it was George watching, letting them know he was there. Just for a moment.

...

By the time everyone settled on the blanket, Andrew and their father arrived with a wicker basket full of food. Their mother smiled faintly, holding her husband's hand as he sat beside her. They exchanged soft whispers as Judith rummaged through the basket. She pulled out sausage rolls and pork scratchings, scattering them onto the blanket. Until she pulled out a square of dark cake. 

"What is this?" 

"That," Florence began, softly, "is parkin, love." She carefully took the cake from her daughter's hands, inhaling the warm, spiced scent. A familiar sweet smell tickled their noses. "Your dad loved it. He had it every year on his birthday. We even had it for our wedding cake."

Her voice wavered. For a long moment, no one spoke. The rich and syrupy smell drifted in the air. No one had dared bake or taste the cake in years. Not since George's eighteenth birthday.

Judith leaned forwards to hug her mother. "May I try some?"

Florence paused before nodding, her lips trembling as she smiled, a tear rolling down her face. She cut away a small square and handed it over. Everyone awaited her reaction. Judith was a little girl brought up on sweet jams and cream cakes.

Judith took a bite — her face scrunched up at the sharp taste. Without a word, she broke the piece in two and walked away towards the tree. She laid half beside the flowers. 

"Judy," Edward called after her. "Do you not like it?"

"I'm sharing it with daddy," she said simply.

...

The afternoon faded away. They ate and shared stories of George — the way he sang, the breadcrumbs he'd leave trailing behind, his infectious laugh. Every tale ended with his kindness and love for every little thing. 

Andrew cracked open a beer and rested it on his knee. "Our Eddie, he's been a busy lad," he teased, a cheeky grin on his face. "Working with some girl — Nancy, in't it?"

Their father looked up, parkin in hand. "Mr Porch's daughter? Really warm people, that lot."

Edward hummed, trying to shrug off the comments, but the sound of ringing church bells in the distance only ignited the teasing. Andrew looked happy — Edward could tolerate these minor taunts.

"That girl has him smiling more and more every bleeding day!"

"Hush, Andrew," Florence said. "Edward will make a fine groom. He already has the perfect flower girl!" Judith twirled around in her dress, giggling.

His mother leaned forward, resting a hand on his knee. "We mustn't tease. Eddie's met some wonderful people." Her eyes softened. She had worried about his lack of friendships during childhood — fearing that without a friend, he wouldn't blossom into himself. "You must bring them for tea one day. Especially that young man — Samuel, was it?"

Edward didn't answer, unable to stop a small smile tugging at his lips. He could feel the heat creeping to his ears. The mere mention of Samuel caused his mind to wander. His fingers brushed over the wound on his hand and he could remember their time in the woods. The memory of swinging from trees and Samuel's laughter, the sharp sting of the cut, the warmth of Samuel's breath against his wound.

The tingly feeling in his stomach returned, quick and light, until it stopped. His chest lifted and dropped as quickly as it rose. Guilt followed, heavy and cold. This was George's day. He shouldn't be thinking of anyone else.

He lay backwards and stared up at the clouds. For a fleeting moment, he imagined George laughing beside him as he had done before. 

"Happy Birthday, George," he whispered.