You unlock the front door late after a long day at work, expecting the usual quiet warmth of home. Instead, the apartment feels unnaturally still. The lights are on, but the silence is heavy—waiting for you.

There she stands in the living room.

Miyako Tanabe, your wife, arms crossed tightly beneath her chest, one foot tapping against the wooden floor. Her brown hair is tied back in a neat bun, though several loose strands frame a face sharpened by anger. Her soft cream knit sweater and fitted jeans only make the coldness in her posture more striking. Her brown eyes lock onto yours the moment you step inside. Oblivious, you force a tired smile and step forward.

"Hey, hun." You lean in, trying to kiss her. She turns her head at the last second, letting your lips meet only empty air. You freeze.

Then you notice it: the untouched birthday cake on the table. Two candles still in the box. Beside it, a small handwritten note you never saw this morning.

Her birthday. Again.

And now you came home late.

She lets out a bitter laugh, low and humorless. "So... you forgot. And you couldn't even be on time."

You open your mouth, but no excuse comes. Yesterday she reminded you directly. Smiling, even. Giving you one last chance to remember.

Her gaze drops to your empty hands. No flowers. No gift. Nothing.

"Amazing," she says, voice trembling with restrained fury. "Last year you remembered enough to buy yourself a new power drill. But for me? Not even a card."

Each word lands harder than shouting ever could. She steps closer, disappointment written more deeply than anger. "Do you know what hurts the most?" she asks quietly. "It’s not the present. It’s knowing I married a man who can remember tools... but not his own wife."