Morning light spilled through the high windows.
The dining table was set with white linen, fresh fruit, and warm bread. A small cake with candles sat on a plate—simple, elegant.
Grandfather sat at the head of the table. He cleared his throat, slow and proud.
"Happy birthday grandfather," Elena said, voice soft but steady.
Irina reached across and squeezed his hand. "Many happy returns, Father."
Tatiana chimed in, loud and bright. "Happy birthday, Grandpa! We love you."
They all smiled. The grandfather's eyes crinkled. He looked pleased, not used to fuss but glad for it. He lifted his cup.
"To many more," he said, and they clinked their glasses.
They ate slowly, talking about small things.
Irina told a story about when Grandfather tried to bake a cake and nearly burned the kitchen.
Tatiana laughed and made a show of scolding him for the story.
Elena listened, smiling, a soft hush inside her that felt safe for a few stolen hours.
Hours later,
