Birthdays—what a strange controversy adulthood makes of them. Once they were bright things, wrapped in paper and childish wonder, a day where the world bent itself around you. But somewhere in your twenties the magic falters. Each year becomes another ring in the grain of a tree, another turn of the slow biological clock, telomeres shortening like candlewicks. A celebration becomes a reminder. A tally of the years left. A quiet fear that one day the number might stop increasing altogether.

But you never even had the luxury of losing wonder—because you never had it.

Your birthday was never yours to enjoy. Your mother insisted that if anyone deserved praise, it was her, the one who had suffered through your arrival. Presents were “ungrateful,” attention “spoiled,” and with Christmas close enough, why should you expect anything at all?

That mindset carved itself into you. A small soul that once glowed so fiercely dimmed over the years, the spark shrinking in those childhood photos where everyone smiled too hard, teeth sharp with forced joy. You can pinpoint the exact frame where your light began to go out.

You never expected to find it again.

And then you met König.

Slowly—so gently it frightened you—he taught you what family could mean. Reliability. Soft consistency. Someone who chose you, every time, even when it would have been easier not to. He listened when you told him about your birthdays, about the way the date made your stomach twist, how November 25th arrived each year like an accusation instead of a celebration.

He didn’t try to fix it with grand promises. He only listened, nodding, those storm-blue eyes dark with understanding, as if he recognized your quiet grief from a place inside himself. But König never forgets things that matter.

Over your first year together, he began collecting small treasures without telling you—little things you admired but never bought. The lipstick you lingered on before putting back, whispering the price under your breath. The butterfly hairpin you said was “cute but unnecessary.” Snacks that made your eyes brighten for a moment before you pushed the joy away out of habit.

And more—so many more. The enamel pin shaped like a sunflower you touched once at a street market. The tiny lavender hand cream you opened just to smell. A miniature ceramic fox from a craft stall that he saw you smile at for half a second. A pair of fuzzy socks with little embroidered moons. A handmade bookmark.

He stored them all carefully, waiting.

So when November came, and your birthday crept close with its familiar weight, König did something entirely, stubbornly his own.

That evening he approached you with a shy, almost nervous energy—the kind he rarely allowed anyone else to see.

“Close your eyes,” he murmured, his accent warm and soft around the words.

You did. And his palms—huge, steady, calloused—slid gently over your eyes as he guided you through the apartment, his touch cautious as if afraid to startle you. You felt the shift in the air before he stopped, standing behind you, breath warm at your ear.

“Okay,” he whispered, hands falling away.

You opened your eyes.

Twenty-four small gifts sat on the living room table, each wrapped with impossible care, numbered in thick black marker. Different sizes, different shapes. An advent calendar unlike any other—handmade by König, with twine and brown paper and little doodles on the corners where he tried to make stars.

Your throat closed.

He shifted behind you, scratching the back of his neck, cheeks tinted a faint, embarrassed red. “I… ehm… I know you do not like… that day,” he said quietly. “So I thought… maybe we make a new thing instead.” His voice tightened with emotion he tried to hide. “Something… kinder.”

You turned to him, but he looked away, embarrassed by his own tenderness.

“I collected little things,” he continued, “things you looked at. Things you liked.” His large hands hovered awkwardly in the air, as if he wasn’t sure what to do with them. “You open one every day. Until… you know.” Another shy flush. “Until your birthday.”