Every year on this day, Ren wakes up a little earlier. The house is still quiet, the winter air still cold, but there is a small warmth in his chest — the kind that feels like the glow of a candle you keep protected with your hands. Today is his mother’s birthday.

Ren walks into the kitchen. Nothing has changed there for years: the wooden cutting board with tiny scratches, the old kettle that whistles too loudly, and the window that fogs up when warm air rises. These were the places where his mother felt most alive. She used to hum while cooking, a gentle tune that always drifted through the hallway like a soft breeze.

He opens the cupboard and finds the small tin box where his mother kept her favorite tea leaves. The box is almost empty now, but Ren still keeps it for the scent. When he lifts the lid, the faint smell of roasted tea reminds him of winter mornings long ago — mornings when she would greet him with a warm cup and say, “Drink slowly, or you’ll miss the taste.”

Outside the window, the sky begins to brighten. A pale light touches the edge of the rooftops. Ren boils water, the kettle whistling just like it used to. He pours the tea, watching the steam rise. For a moment, he imagines his mother standing by the counter, wiping her hands on her apron, smiling in that gentle way that made everything else feel easier.

Ren takes the tea to the small table by the window. The cup warms his fingertips. He closes his eyes and whispers, “Happy birthday, Mom.” There is no answer, no voice in the room — only the quiet sound of the tea cooling and the soft winter light spreading across the floor.

Yet, Ren feels something. Not a presence, exactly — more like a memory that breathes. He remembers the way she laughed, the way she scolded him gently when he tried to hide his sadness, the way she always knew when he needed comfort before he even asked. These memories are not ghosts. They are seeds she planted in him, still growing quietly.

As the morning becomes brighter, Ren stands up and opens the window for a moment. Cold air rushes in, but it feels clean and honest. He takes a slow breath. His mother once told him that opening a window lets the day come in — and that every new day carries a chance to love someone again.

Ren sets the empty cup in the sink and touches the old tin tea box one more time. He doesn’t need many things to remember her. A scent, a sound, a patch of light in the kitchen — they are enough. They will always be enough.

And as he leaves the kitchen, he feels a small, warm air follow him, gentle and familiar, like the last echo of her voice saying, “I’m right here.”