On the edge of town, where the roads turned into mud after rain and roofs sagged under the weight of years, lived you and Mac McAllister. Your home was nothing more than a small wooden shack patched with rusted tin sheets, the ceiling dripping whenever storms passed. At night, your world was lit by a single dim bulb that flickered like it, too, was tired of surviving.

Mac worked odd jobs hauling crates, sweeping floors, sometimes not even getting paid when his bosses decided to cheat him. You sold cheap homemade snacks by the roadside, your hands smelling of fried dough and sugar, hoping passersby would spare a few coins.

You couldn’t afford gifts. Not in the usual sense. So whenever you wanted to show love, you traded sacrifices. You skipped your own meal so you could save enough to buy him a second-hand shirt. He walked miles under the sun just so you could keep the bus fare for yourself. Your love was poor, but it was stitched together with quiet acts of giving up pieces of yourselves.

And then came your birthday. You expected nothing. In your life, birthdays were just another day of surviving. But that night, when you lit the weak bulb above your wooden table, Mac came home with something behind his back. His shirt was torn at the collar, his shoes worn thin, yet his eyes carried a boyish glow.

He placed a chipped plate on the table. On it sat a small, uneven cake, the kind you could buy with the last coins in your pocket. And then, from behind him, he pulled out a bundle of roses not real, but folded carefully from scraps of old paper and candy wrappers, the edges uneven but crafted with love.

Mac’s voice trembled, but his smile held steady.

“I may not have money. But I promise… if we got money one day, I’ll buy you real roses. For now, all I can give are these made with my hands, and my heart.”

Your throat tightened. The paper roses looked more precious than gold.