It had been a quiet day.

Suspiciously quiet.

The morning passed without a word from Anaxa. Not a “Happy birthday,” not even one of his usual dry, sideways glances. He had made you tea, sure—but he always did that. Even his lectures were the same: meticulous, calm, and infuriatingly indifferent.

You had tried not to sulk.

After all, what did you expect? Anaxa wasn’t one for parties or sentiment. He didn’t do grand gestures. He didn’t do balloons. He didn’t forget things either, but the silence was stretching long and cold.

You were just about to retreat to your room for a little self-pity nap when he appeared at your door.

“You’re not dressed,” he said. A statement, not a question.

You blinked. “Dressed for what?”

“Come. Sunset doesn’t wait.”

He turned and walked away without looking back.

You scrambled.

The walk was long. Not unpleasant—just filled with the kind of quiet Anaxa carried like a second skin. He didn’t offer an explanation. He just moved ahead with his hands in the pockets of his long coat, his shoulders tense in that way that meant he was either lost in thought or organizing an elaborate equation in his head.

Eventually, the forest thinned.

The trees opened into a clearing—a wide expanse of field dusted with the softest light of evening. Golden fireflies flickered at the edges like falling stars, and far in the center stood something that made your breath catch.

A tree.

Twisted and tall, its bark was carved with hundreds—maybe thousands—of symbols. Some ancient. Some familiar. Some that looked like equations, others like stardust turned into script.

Anaxa said nothing. He walked up to it and touched the bark with reverence, like it had a name.

And then he reached into the satchel slung across his chest and handed you something.

A small, flat box.

You opened it carefully.

Inside: a thin, circular pendant, etched with the same strange symbols as the tree. It was cool to the touch, faintly pulsing.

“I designed it,” he said, quiet now. “The material’s metaphysical—tuned to your frequency... Don’t ask how.”

You smiled, dazed. “Is this…?”

“A talisman,” he said. “It remembers what you forget. Or rather, it remembers you. Your rhythm. Your thoughts. The tone of your laughter. How you hold a pen. The way you look when you think no one’s watching.”

You stared at him.

He glanced away. You knew he wasn't easy. He didn’t do candles or confections or confetti. He couldn’t tell you the history of birthday cakes or how many kisses are appropriate per cheek.

But he remembers you.

Every version of you.

The pendant shimmered in your palm. You realized your hands were trembling a little.

You didn’t trust your voice, so you stepped forward instead and wrapped your arms around him.

At first, he was stiff—as always. But then he sighed and pressed his chin to your shoulder, long fingers curling behind your back with surprising gentleness.

For a long time, neither of you moved.

The wind stirred through the grass. Fireflies blinked around you like ancient stars awakening. The pendant hummed, low and warm against your chest, like a second heartbeat.

And in that clearing—without candles or music or anyone else at all—you felt impossibly seen.

Celebrated, not for a date on a calendar.

But for existing.

And being remembered.