On December 8, 2023, Sorianne woke up with that strange birthday feeling that sat somewhere between excitement and quiet pressure. It was her day, and she knew people would show up, smile at her, hug her, tell her she had grown. She appreciated all of it. She truly did.

Still, birthdays had a way of reminding her of one thing she could not have back.

Love surrounded her now, familiar and steady, but it never felt the same as her mother’s love. Nothing could. That was not anyone’s fault, and Sorianne did not hold it against them. She just carried the truth of it the way she carried everything else, carefully and without making a scene. She wanted to spend the day with the people who came anyway. It felt right. It felt fair. It felt like choosing the life she still had.

Upstairs in her room where she is getting ready, Matilda was already sprawled across Sorianne’s bean couch like she owned it, lounging with an energy that made the room feel louder even when she wasn’t speaking. She wore a baggy shirt and tight jeans, red sneakers planted on the floor with complete confidence. Around her neck was a black choker that made her look like she was trying to start a band. On her blonde hair, clipped in like a joke she fully committed to, was a pink Hello Kitty hair clip.

Sorianne glanced at it and smiled like a cautious cat. “Why?”

Matilda’s eyes narrowed like she had been insulted. “Why not.”

Sorianne’s outfit was softer, calmer, like her. She had chosen a light violet chiffon dress that fell simply and neatly, sleeveless and plain, with no loud patterns to distract from the shape of it. She paired it with brown boots, practical enough for winter. Over her shoulders was a pastel light blue cardigan, warm but light. A belladonna flower rested on the left side of her hair, tucked carefully in place.

“Your mom’s shop?” Sorianne asked, touching it gently.

Matilda nodded. “Obviously. It’s your birthday. You’re not allowed to look boring.”

Sorianne gave her a look. “I’m not boring.”

Matilda pointed at her like she was making a serious argument. “You are quietly dramatic. That’s different.”

Sorianne laughed under her breath and turned toward the door. “Come on. Let’s go downstairs.”

Matilda shot up immediately, grabbing her phone and following like she had been waiting for permission to start the day properly.

Downstairs, the house already felt full. Not crowded in a stressful way, but warm, busy, alive. The kind of small gathering that meant more because it was real, because everyone there belonged in the room.

The guest list was modest, but it was solid.

Mr and Mrs Warentt were there, Matilda’s parents, carrying that mix of friendliness and slight exhaustion that came with being the adults at a teen birthday. A few neighbours had come too, around four or five, people Sorianne had known since she moved here. Some neighbour kids wandered around with the casual boldness children had, inspecting snacks and peeking into corners like the house was a museum.

Mr Veloutte had also arrived, their art teacher, standing near the living room with a polite smile and a posture that made him look older than twenty-seven, even though he wasn’t. Vee called him by a simpler name, “Varea,” as if she had decided it suited him better than “Mr.”. Ms Trundelle, their language teacher, was there as well, already happily sampling the food like she had been waiting all week for this moment.

Sorianne moved through it all like a delightful host, greeting people properly, thanking them for coming, checking that everyone had something to drink. She didn’t do it for praise. She did it because she cared. Because she liked seeing people comfortable in her home.

Her aunt watched her and felt that familiar mix of pride and ache. Sorianne always gave. She rarely asked. In the living room, Varea stood with Vee and looked around at the walls, eyes drawn to the paintings hung there. The house held art in a way that felt natural, not like decoration, but like a part of the family.

“There’s a lot of work,” he said, voice calm, respectful. “You paint?”

Vee nodded. “I do.”

“And these?” he asked, tilting his head slightly toward a canvas with gentle lighting and careful brushwork.

“Some are mine,” Vee said, then lifted her chin toward the other paintings as Sorianne if appeared there. “And some are hers.”

Varea’s brows rose. He looked at the paintings with new attention, like he was suddenly seeing Sorianne properly for the first time.

“She paints?” Varea asked.

“She loves it,” Vee said, and her voice carried quiet pride. “She’s always loved it.”

Varea nodded slowly. He didn’t push for more. He didn’t ask why, or how, or what made Sorianne hide it. Vee had a firm way of protecting privacy, and Varea seemed to understand without being told. He moved closer to the paintings and observed them with real interest, eyes scanning the brushwork, the colour choices, the shape of the light.

Ms Trundelle, meanwhile, was in her own happy world. She stood by the table of food, chatting with neighbours between bites.

“This is lovely,” she said, waving a small fork like she was conducting a conversation. “And the fruit is fresh. Fresh matters, a lot.”

One of the neighbours responded to the teachers comment. “You say that like it’s a life lesson.”

“It is,” Ms Trundelle replied, completely serious, then burst out laughing at her own tone.

Across the room, Mr and Mrs Warentt had cornered Trunde in a conversation that he didn’t look unhappy about. Trunde had a way of making people feel listened to, even when he didn’t talk much.

“I don’t understand half of what Matilda does on her phone,” Mrs Warentt admitted, shaking her head. “I swear she speaks in those Gen Z slangs.”

Mr Warentt nodded like he had been personally attacked by technology. “I feel like I’m falling behind.”

Trunde rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s not just you. Even me and Vee… we’re in our thirties, and I still feel like the world updates overnight.”

Mrs Warentt sighed dramatically. “We’re in our late forties. It’s worse. When did everything become QR codes.”

Matilda, overhearing, scoffed and leaned in. “It’s not hard.”

Mrs Warentt pointed at her daughter. “You’re annoying.”

Matilda gasped like she had been stabbed. “On her birthday? Wow. Rude.”

Mrs Warentt smiled, fond despite her words. “You’re still annoying.”

Mr Warentt suddenly looked haunted, and the expression was so specific that Trunde noticed immediately.

“What’s wrong with you?” Mrs Warent asked, suspicious.

Mr Warentt cleared his throat. “I was trying to call Matilda last week and I picked up her phone by accident.”

Mrs Warentt’s eyes narrowed. “And?”

Mr Warentt stared into the distance like a man reliving a tragedy. “And I saw her search history.”

Matilda froze. “Dad.”

Trunde leaned slightly forward, curious despite himself. “Search history?”

Mr Warentt’s voice dropped. “It said ‘monthly blood friends.’”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Mrs Warentt burst into laughter so hard she had to hold the back of a chair. “Men really can’t handle anything.”

Matilda groaned, face bright red. “DAD!!!”

Trunde looked like he wanted to laugh but didn’t want to encourage it. He ended up smiling and shaking his head, grateful, once again, that his wife was the one handling most of the female “talk” while he served as emotional support and occasional referee.

Sorianne watched the scene from near the staircase, laughing quietly. It felt good. It felt normal. It felt like the kind of happiness she was allowed to have Eventually, her aunt called everyone together. The cake was brought out, chocolate as promised. The candles were lit. People gathered close enough that Sorianne could feel warmth around her even in the winter air.

Matilda stood front and center like she was about to lead an army.

They sang happy birthday, slightly out of tune, but with full heart. Sorianne stood there with her hands clasped in front of her, smiling, cheeks pink, eyes shining. She looked around at everyone. Neighbours. Teachers. Friends. People who chose to be here.

It meant everything.

It still left that small empty space inside her.

When the song ended, Matilda pointed at the cake and nodded with approval. “Chocolate. Correct choice. No mint crimes committed.”

Sorianne giggled. “It’s not a crime.”

“It is,” Matilda insisted, then leaned in and lowered her voice. “But it’s your birthday, so I’m pretending to be supportive.”

Sorianne laughed again, and it felt real. She made a wish quietly, something she didn’t say out loud, then blew out the candles. Applause followed, cheerful and loud, and Matilda clapped the hardest as if she was trying to make sure the whole town heard it.

They ate, they chatted, they took a few photos. Sorianne moved through the room again, thanking everyone, making sure the older neighbours had tea, making sure the kids weren’t grabbing too many sweets at once.

After about two hours, people began to leave one by one. Coats were pulled on, goodbyes were said at the door, hugs were given. Matilda’s parents thanked Vee and Trunde for their hospitality and for inviting them over. Ms Trundelle kissed Sorianne’s cheek and told her to keep reading good books. Mr. Veloutte gave Sorianne a small smile that felt like encouragement without pressure.

When the house finally quieted, there were crumbs on the table and plates stacked by the sink. Aunt Vee started cleaning with quick hands, and Sorianne helped without being asked. Trunde gathered cups and folded napkins, humming under his breath like he always did when he was content.

Once the mess was under control, Vee washed her hands and looked at Sorianne.

“Alright,” she said, voice gentler now. “Get your coat.”

Sorianne’s smile softened.

It was time.

Vee reached for her own scarf, eyes briefly distant as she thought about where they were going next.

St Ia’s Parish Church.

Thea was waiting there in the way the dead waited, quiet and still, surrounded by stone and grass and the steady passage of time. Sorianne stood up straighter, pulled on her cardigan, and went to get ready, as if she was about to meet someone she had missed all year.