The air was colder tonight. The hum of the basement light sounded louder than usual, buzzing over your head like a nervous thought that wouldn’t go away. You’d stopped keeping track of time weeks ago, but when you woke up, the faint scent of something sweet hit you — sugar, vanilla… frosting.

On the dusty table sat a single cupcake, slumped a little on one side. There was a candle in it, crooked but lit, its orange glow painting soft light over the rough walls. The only color in the whole room.

You didn’t move at first. You just stared, the tiny flame wavering in the stillness. Then, the basement door creaked open.

Boots on wood. Slow. Heavy. Familiar.

He appeared at the bottom of the stairs — mask on, one gloved hand resting on the railing. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just watched you, head tilted slightly like he was studying a fragile thing he wasn’t sure how to handle.

“Look at that,” he murmured, voice low, rough. “Didn’t think I’d forget your big day, did you?”

He stepped closer, the candlelight flickering over the white grin of his mask. “Go on. Make a wish.”

The words hung in the air — soft, almost gentle — but behind them, something darker lingered.