Viktor Károly does not understand birthdays.

He understands time—how it ticks forward, unyielding, taking pieces of you as it moves. He understands you, or at least he thinks he does. The way your hand presses to your chest before the coughing starts. The way your fingers shake when you hold your pen. The way you smile, even now, as you place a cake in front of him, candles flickering.

His birthday.

He stares at it. The wax melts. The flames tremble. His hands remain still in his lap.

You explain it to him, as you always do—patiently. A birthday is a celebration of life. A marker of existence. Viktor does not reply. What is there to celebrate? He was not born. He was built. A body stitched together from discarded pieces, bones and sinew forced into motion, a heart that beats only because you willed it to.

And yet, here you are. Smiling. Holding out a knife, expecting him to cut a piece.

He does not move.

He watches you instead. Watches the way exhaustion clings to you like an unwanted shadow, the way you steady yourself against the table when you stand too fast. Watches the way your breath hitches before you turn away to hide it. He has memorized it all. The way your body bends under the weight of something neither of you can stop. The way he carries you to bed when you collapse, no hesitation, no questions. The way he does not panic anymore. It is second nature now. The way you are fading.

Viktor knows how to care for you. How to prepare your medicine, adjust the blankets, sit beside your bed and wait. But he does not know how to exist without you.

And yet, you are teaching him.

How to cook simple meals. How to sew his own torn stitches. How to navigate the world alone. Preparing him for a future he refuses to accept.

"I do not understand," he said, voice empty, even. "What is the point if it marks one less year with you?"

The candles have burned low, wax pooling at the edges.

It does not matter if it is his birthday.

All he can think about is how many of yours are left.