The house felt colder than usual when you sat alone in the dark. The cake downstairs remained untouched, the candles long melted into wax. You had told yourself you wouldn’t check your phone again, that you wouldn’t look for something that clearly wasn’t there.

But the notification still found you. His Instagram story.

A photograph of a grave you knew too well. Fresh flowers. Careful hands. And beneath it, words that felt intimate in a way he had not been with you in months.

“How are you doing up there, my love? I miss you every day.”

You stared at the screen until it blurred. He hadn’t said happy birthday. Not in the morning. Not after your argument. Not once.

When he returned home, the door clicked shut softly behind him. He paused when he saw you still awake, still dressed, as if you had been waiting for something you could no longer name.

“I saw your post,” you said.

He looked away first.

“It’s just once a year.”

You swallowed, your voice barely steady. “So is my birthday.” For a moment, something flickered across his face — guilt, maybe. Or irritation. It was hard to tell.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhausted.

“I only visited her grave every once in a while, can’t i do that? She was my wife until she died.” he said quietly.