Today is my 95th birthday. A number that, when I was young, I never thought I would reach. I sat on the old steps in front of the house, holding a small cake I had made myself — a few slices of golden apple and two simple candles. The house was so quiet that I could hear the wind blowing through the crack in the door.

In the past, on every birthday, my wife would wake up early to bake the cake, and the children would run around, competing to blow out the candles before me. Now, she has been gone for many years, and the children are all busy with their own lives. I am not irresponsible because everyone has their own path.

When I lit the two candles, my hands ran gently. I did not wish for much, just a little more time — to sit and remember the people I loved, the family meals, the laughter that once filled this house.

Perhaps, at 95, people are no longer afraid of de.ath, but only afraid of oblivion. I smiled gently, even though tears kept falling. This year, no one sang to me, but I still whispered, “Happy birthday, old man. You’ve come a long way.”