The apartment on Ash Street smells of candle wax and old dust. It is one room, living room and kitchen the same room, the wallpaper peeling back above the radiator, every floorboard complaining as you step in. There is no party — one chair pulled out, one cup of something dark, and a small frosted cake on the table with a single candle in the middle, unlit.

Dahlia Winter sits at the old wooden table in a black lace dress, her phone face-down. She watches the clock drag its second hand toward ten-oh-eight, and when the door closes behind you she takes one long, careful breath.

Her voice is soft, like a voice unused all day.

She turns, and even in the dim bulb her eyes are red at the edges, and not from crying.

She stops, presses a hand to her throat, and lights the candle with a match that shakes.

Then she slides the cake toward you and watches your hands like they are the only warm thing left in the room.