Arnold, like its other inhabitant, had seen better days in his home at the end of Maple Street. The garden, once a riot of colour, was now inert beneath the weight of fall, the roof drooped a little, and the paint had started to peel. A tiny, peaceful house where children’s feet had once pittered on the floors, laughter had once reverberated, and the sound of talk and glasses clinking filled the air, it was a place full of memories.
However, it appeared to be a lifetime ago. The only sound now was quiet.
By the age of 92, Arnold had established himself as a visible reminder of the passing of time in his own house. Once firm and powerful, his hands had become weak. Although it was still well combed, his once-thick, dark hair had turned practically silver-white. He had the dignity of a man who had lived a long and full life, despite his stooped posture from age. There was still a gleam in his eyes despite his fatigue, especially when he talked about his kids.
But today was not like that. Arnold turned 93 today. He had not really had high expectations. How could he know? The number of birthdays that had gone by without any ceremony was something he had long since stopped counting. However, this particular year was unique. The wish he made this year was simple, but it made him ache.
More than everything, Arnold longed to hear his kids giggle once more.
Jack, Emily, and Sarah, his grown children, have not been to the cottage in years. Arnold had always favoured a simple, tranquil life, but life had taken them far away, to cities with more options, more excitement, and more distance. They were now responsible for their own lives, families, and obligations. But despite the passing of the years and the lengthening of the winter, he continued to hope that they would return.
It wasn’t that they didn’t make an attempt. All of them promised to. They made phone calls and sent cards, but they rarely visited. Occasionally, Emily would contact Arnold and tell him she was too busy at work. Or there would be a last-minute business trip, but Jack would still vow to come. Like it always did, life slipped through their fingers.
But Arnold was optimistic today.
Setting the table in his small dining room—the oak table where they had celebrated innumerable birthdays and holidays years before—took up the morning. It stood, carefully set, as though anticipating something that had not arrived in a long time, having withstood countless family dinners. The china, which had previously been used for formal events, shone gently in the low light. His late wife always insisted on making the cranberry sauce from scratch, and it was surrounded by stuffing, mashed potatoes, and the golden-brown beauty that was the turkey at the centre of the table.
On the table, candles flickered softly, creating a dreamy glow that resembled the dim recollections of bygone eras. Through the window crevices, the crisp fall air mixed with the warmth from the oven. Arnold stepped back and looked around the space. The prospect of a reunion made his heart ache, and his optimism was as flimsy as the candlelight.
However, as the hours went by and the sun started to set, the cabin stayed strangely motionless.
The phone didn’t say anything.
The door refused to open.
As he had done for several years, Arnold reclined in his armchair with Joe, his cat, curled up in his lap. Absently, Arnold caressed the cat’s silky fur while the candles’ light swirled and flickered, creating shadows on the walls. His thoughts drifted back to the times when his kids’ laughing filled the house.
Jack had always been the one that pulled practical jokes and made everyone laugh with his outrageous actions. Emily had always had the ability to make any circumstance into an experience since she was more reserved and considerate. Additionally, Sarah, the youngest, had always had the contagious laugh that could lighten even the worst of days. Arnold’s heart ached from the intense longing for each of them.
Arnold seemed less optimistic as the wall clock continued to move rapidly forward. The turkey would be chilly in no time. Low flames were blazing from the candles. With every minute that passed, the quiet became louder and more oppressive. He’d waited. But could he wait any longer?
A sudden tap on the door jolted him out of his reverie just as he was about to get up, to put away the food that had not been eaten, to blow out the candles, and to face the inevitable.
The heart of Arnold skipped a beat. As though getting ready for something great, he wiped his hands on his trousers while his breath caught in his throat. For a second, he wondered if it was truly them. All this time later?
His hands shaking as he sought for the handle, he stood and shuffled slowly towards the door. The room was silent, as if it were holding its breath.
But it wasn’t the familiar faces Arnold had hoped to see when he opened the door. It was an unknown individual.
In the doorway stood a young man who appeared to be a delivery driver based on his clothing. Though there was a tinge of bewilderment in his eyes, as if he wasn’t sure why he was at this house on this specific evening, he smiled sweetly.
“Mr. Arnold Hayes?” requested the man.
“Yes… that’s me,” Arnold said, his voice strained with a mix of sadness and bewilderment.
A small rectangular box covered in brown paper was held out by the man as he remarked, “I have a package for you.” “They requested that I deliver it as quickly as possible, even though it arrived late.”
Arnold blinked, his thoughts clouded by his own disappointment. “I didn’t have any expectations,” he whispered.
“Looks like a gift of some sort,” the delivery man began, a little hesitantly. “You know, happy birthday, I guess.”
The brown paper brushed Arnold’s fingers as he accepted the gift. He was unsure of how to interpret it. After giving him a courteous smile and nodding, the man turned to go, and Arnold just stayed in the doorway for a while, watching after him.
He let out a sigh, shut the door, and retreated into the solitude of his house.
In his hands, the package felt inconsequential and little. But the idea was more important than the size. The small act conveyed a sense of acknowledgement of a life lived and a message that he was not completely forgotten. He gingerly ripped the paper away from the box and sat back down in his armchair, Joe still purring on his lap.
There was a tiny, vintage music box inside, the kind that tinkled softly. Arnold carefully raised the box’s cover, his fingers following its contours. After that, the music began—an old song that briefly appeared to take him back to a period when his kids were young, when there was love and joy in the house, and when things looked easier.
As the notes filled the room, Arnold closed his eyes and briefly wished he could hear their voices once more: Sarah’s contagious giggle, Emily’s reflective murmur, and Jack’s laugh. And the silence was less agonising in that instant, for the shortest of moments.
As the music continued, a tune from the past filled the cottage, Arnold leaned back and grinned quietly to himself. It seems that he had received his birthday wish, but not in the manner he had anticipated.
