I return home from the park. The sun is setting. In just a few more minutes, the party will begin-not anything grand, just something simple. Somewhere around three o'clock, I think. The party started.
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Happy birthday to you.
Happy birthday.
Happy birthday.
Happy birthday to you.
The tune doesn't change. It never does. It stays where it is, flat, unshifting, caught in a single line that refuses to rise or fall. It repeats itself not because it wants to, but because it doesn't seem to know how to stop. Or maybe it does know, and simply chooses not to.
It doesn't feel happy.
It should. That's what the song is for. That's what it's meant to sound like-light, warm, something that lifts rather than settles.
But when I say the words, they feel heavy in my mouth, like something placed there that doesn't quite belong to me. Something I'm expected to carry, even if I don't understand why.
It's not that I'm not happy.
Because if I'm not happy, then what is this supposed to be? This moment. This day. This version of me standing here, saying words I've said before, in a tone I don't recognize as my own.
My tongue presses against the roof of my mouth between each line, as if checking, testing, whether the taste will change the second time. It doesn't. It stays the same, dull and faintly bitter. Like sweetness that's gone stale.
But every time I repeat the words, something in me recoils. Not violently. Not enough to stop me. Just… enough to notice. A small resistance. A quiet refusal. Like my mouth understands something that I don't.
Why?
I don't know.
Another question without an answer. Or maybe not another. Maybe it's the same question, repeating itself the same way the song does- unchanged, unresolved, circling something it never quite reaches.
I keep asking. It never responds. Even so… it's my mother's birthday.
"Mother, happy birthday," I say. This time, the words come out smoother. Like I've practiced them without realizing it. "Here's my gift."
I hold the box out to her. For a moment, I don't let go. My fingers remain where they are, resting against the edges, as if they've forgotten their purpose. Or maybe they remember too well. Maybe they understand something I haven't fully accepted yet-that once I release it, it won't belong to me anymore.
"I hope you like it," I add, though the sentence feels unnecessary. Of course she'll like it. She has to. I thought about it. I chose it. I made sure it was right.
It is right.
Inside the box is my gift. A wonderful present. Something meaningful, appropriate and… correct.
The box itself is painted a deep crimson red. Not bright. Not the kind that catches the light, darker and thicker than that.
The kind of red that doesn't shine-it settles. It clings. It stays where it is, as if it were never meant to move in the first place.
Still… It's just a color. Just paint. There's nothing strange about it.
There shouldn't be. It's simple. Just a box. Nothing elaborate, nothing decorative. It was plain, ordinary, and somewhat casual. That's what it looks like. That's what it is.
Mother sits down across from me, the box now resting in her hands. She doesn't open it immediately. Instead, she looks at me. Longer than I expected.
Her eyes hold something-curiosity, maybe. Or something close to it. Something that almost resembles curiosity, but doesn't fully settle into it. I watch her as she looks at the box, then back at me, as if weighing something I can't see. As if there's a question forming somewhere behind her expression, waiting for the right moment to surface.
The room feels… empty.
Not physically. Everything is where it should be. The walls, the table, the quiet space between us-it all exists exactly as it should. And yet-
It feels like something is missing. Or maybe something is there that shouldn't be. It's just the two of us.
My mother. And me. And the box.
That should be all. It is all.
I want her to be happy. That thought comes clearly. I hold onto it for a moment, turning it over in my mind, checking if it feels real.
It does. I think. Mother glances down at the box again, then back at me.
This time, she speaks.
"What's in the box?"
Her voice is calm. It reminds me of wind, not the kind that moves through trees or carries sound, but the kind that passes through something vast and empty.
Thud.
Thud.
A heartbeat.
Thud.
Thud.
I can hear it clearly now, each pulse landing with a weight that feels heavier than it should be, as if it's not just a sound, but something pressing against the inside of my head.
Maybe it's hers.
Maybe it's mine.
I can't tell.
But one thing is certain.
"You might end up like the cat inside the box," I told her.