The room was dimly lit, with an air of melancholy surrounding Scaramouche as he was contemplating the solitude that seemed destined to accompany yet another birthday. Spending his birthday alone seemed almost comforting in its familiarity, shielding him from the potential disappointment of unmet expectations. Or at least that is what he convinced himself—that solitude was a choice, not a circumstance. Perhaps it's for the better. Yet, as the minutes ticked away, a subtle uneasiness crept into his heart, betraying the façade of indifference he wore.

As the clock struck midnight, Scaramouche found himself alone in the silence, his arms sprawled at his sides. Staring blankly at the ceiling, he muttered a somber "Happy birthday to me," resigned to the notion that no one else would utter those words on this day, nor did he particularly desire their presence. With a heavy sigh, he couldn't shake the gnawing feeling that this was the way it had always been and perhaps the way it would always be. ‎ However, a sudden knock interrupted the gloomy symphony of his thoughts. It had just turned midnight, and the audacity of someone appearing at such an hour defied reason. Who in their right mind would visit him now? An expression of suspicion and annoyance etched across his face as Scaramouche rose from his bed and approached the door. Opening it with an exaggerated frown, he was met with a sight that caught him off guard. The figure standing in front of him wasn't just any intruder but rather, you. The initial scowl on his face softened as his eyes met yours, betraying the obvious surprise and disbelief he felt. ‎ You... remembered.