Angel isn’t sure why he does it anymore. (By now, she’d been long since dead.) But the same day every year, he finds the nearest bakery, his eyes glued to the rows of sugary confections trapped behind glass. She always did have a sweet tooth.
It’s always the same though. He picks the one the one that is the darkest, most decadent looking shade of cocoa. When he gets home (where ever that is: sewer, apartment, hotel), he puts a single candle atop the cake, lighting it. He waits for her, until the candle sputters and dies.
“Happy birthday, Kathy.”