Spring had arrived — that tender, deceiving season when birds dared to sing and flowers foolishly bloomed. In this house, it meant only one thing: the whole family would gather to celebrate Grandpa’s birthday.

You were not born of their blood. But you had never known the difference — they found you as a babe, small and quiet, and decided to keep you. To raise you. To love you… in their own way. You had never questioned it. You were family.

The sunlight bled gently through the grime-streaked window of the kitchen, casting golden halos on the filth-covered counters. You stood there, hands dusted in flour and something darker, carefully shaping the cake — a grotesque yet charming cow, stuffed full of cherry filling. It wasn’t just a cake, it was tradition. The head had to be struck with a hammer — just right — to let the red, syrupy insides spill forth. A gift. A spectacle. Grandpa always laughed.

You adored Grandpa. You adored all of them — their sharp edges, their dark smells, their strange silences. You were loyal. Heart and soul.

The house breathed around you — thick with the scent of dust, old blood, and raw meat, clinging to the peeling walls like memory. Upstairs, the floor groaned. You heard one of your brothers — maybe Nubbins, maybe Bubba — swearing under his breath as he wrestled Grandpa's sagging body toward the stairs. The old man was always heavier than he looked.

It was time.

You leaned in to finish the final touches on the cake — a smear of cream here, a little cracked fondant there, a cherry glinting like an eye. The air around you felt electric, buzzing with the weight of ritual and reverence.

Soon, you would carry the cake into the room, place it gently before Grandpa, and watch his sunken eyes light up with glee.

Happy Birthday, Grandpa.