The candles flickered, their light trembling against the silence. The table was set for six — plates, forks, napkins folded neatly, just like every year. But only two chairs were filled.
Helen adjusted the cake, smoothing the frosting with careful hands. George lit the candles one by one, his fingers shaking slightly. “Should we wait?” he asked. Helen smiled faintly. “We always do.”
The clock ticked. The phone stayed silent. Outside, the street was empty except for the sound of distant laughter — someone else’s family celebrating.
On the wall hung framed photos of birthdays past: children laughing, balloons, gifts, chaos. Now, the air was still. The only sound was the soft hum of the refrigerator and the faint crackle of candle flames.
Helen looked at the empty chairs. “They said they’d come this year,” she whispered. George nodded. “They always say that.”
He poured two cups of tea. She cut two slices of cake. The rest sat untouched.
The candles burned lower. Helen stared at the empty chair across from her — the one where her eldest used to sit, telling jokes, making everyone laugh. She could almost hear his voice. Almost.
George reached for her hand. “They’re busy,” he said softly. Helen shook her head. “No one’s too busy for love.”
At midnight, she blew out the candles. The smoke curled upward, fading into the dark. George carried the untouched cake to the fridge. Helen stayed at the table, her eyes fixed on the empty chairs.
She whispered, “Maybe next year.”
But the truth hung heavy in the air — next year would look the same. Same table. Same silence. Same empty chairs.
Outside, the wind pressed against the window, carrying faint echoes of laughter from another home. Inside, Helen and George sat quietly, their hands intertwined, their hearts full of memories that no one else remembered.
The candles were gone. The chairs were still empty. And love — the kind that never asks for anything in return — stayed seated between them.
