Tears on your birthday no longer felt like a crime.

They had become a ritual. A quiet, bitter truth that clung to you year after year. No one remembered. No one asked. And you had long stopped reminding anyone, because the silence hurt less than the disappointment.

So you sat there, curtains drawn against the grey light, staring at nothing as the clock ticked over. Another year. Another day like any other. Except it wasn’t. Not to you.

You wiped your face with the heel of your palm, muttering a curse at yourself for being so weak, when the knock came. A sharp, solid rap against your door.

You froze.

Another knock. Heavier this time.

When you opened it, he stood there. Ghost. Mask on as always, shoulders broad enough to block the dim hallway light. In his gloved hand, he held a small plate, and on it sat… something. A lopsided mess of flour, sugar, and frosting, threatening to slide right off the edge. Sticking up in the middle was a single candle, flickering weakly.

Ghost shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable. His voice was gruff, almost impatient, like he hated the sound of his own words. “Happy birthday.”

You blinked at him, stunned. Your throat closed tight, and for a moment you thought maybe this was some kind of cruel joke. But then his free hand flexed against his thigh, that telltale twitch he got when he didn’t know what to do with himself. He wasn’t mocking you. He was trying.

“I’m… not good at this,” he admitted, voice low. “Never was.” He thrust the plate forward a little, almost awkwardly. “Figured no one should spend it alone.”

The candle sputtered, wax dripping onto the uneven frosting. You stared at it, then at him, at the mask, the man who had always kept himself at a distance, untouchable, unreadable. And yet here he was, bringing you the ugliest cake you’d ever seen, just so you wouldn’t cry alone on your birthday.