Chapter 3 - The Gift of a Muffin
Marcus froze. The words hung in the air, vibrating like a struck tuning fork.
Happy Birthday.
"What... what did you say?" he asked, his voice barely a breath.
Sofia giggled, thinking he was playing a game. She raised her arms high and did a tiny jump, her red sneakers clicking softly against the marble floor. "Happy Birthday! Mommy said today is the day the owner of the big house gets older! So we made this!"
Marcus stared at the package on the table. It was crooked, taped together with messy enthusiasm, and smelled faintly of vanilla and paper.
At that moment, Rosa walked out into the corridor carrying a basket of folded linens. The moment she saw her daughter standing right next to Marcus, climbing onto the footrest of the high bar stool to reach the table, her face drained of all color.
"Sofia!" Rosa gasped, dropping the linen basket. "Oh my god! Sofia, come down from there right now!"
Rosa rushed forward, her hands trembling as she gently pulled the little girl back to the floor. "Mr. Harrington, I am so, so sorry! I turned my back for two minutes to change the sheets, and she slipped out. Sofia, what did I tell you about bothering the gentleman?"
"It's okay, Rosa," Marcus said quietly. He was still staring at the little wrapped package sitting on his table. "Wait... how did she know?"
Rosa looked down at the floor, cheeks flushing a deep crimson. "I... I saw your passport on the study desk last week when I was dusting, sir. I noticed the date—September 14th. I didn't mean to pry, I swear. It's just... in my family, nobody is supposed to be alone on their birthday. I mentioned it to Sofia last night when we were baking. She insisted we bring you something."
Marcus looked from Rosa back to the small girl, who was now hiding half her face behind her mother's leg, watching him with bright, curious eyes.
"She built it for you," Rosa added softly, a humble smile finally breaking through her panic. "It's not much. Just... please don't be angry."
"I'm not angry," Marcus whispered.
He reached out his hand, his fingers surprisingly unsteady as he touched the crinkled newsprint. Slowly, carefully, as if he were unwrapping an ancient, fragile artifact worth more than his entire portfolio, he began to peel away the clear tape.
Inside the paper was a slightly squished, homemade blueberry muffin.
Planted firmly right in the center of the baked top was a single, brightly colored yellow birthday candle.
It was identical to the ones his mother used to press into his pancake stacks twenty years ago in Columbus, Ohio.
Marcus stared at the muffin. A sudden, sharp ache bloomed behind his throat. The slick, cold walls of his $4.7 billion life seemed to melt away, leaving him exposed to a raw, forgotten warmth.
"Do you have a match?" Marcus asked, looking up at Rosa.
Rosa blinked, caught off guard. "I... I think I have a lighter in my purse for the candles at home. Let me check."
She quickly rummaged through her bag on the entry table and pulled out a small plastic lighter. She walked over and handed it to him, her eyes soft with an understanding that required no words.
May you like
Marcus struck the wheel. A tiny yellow flame flickered into existence. He brought it to the wick of the yellow candle.
The small flame caught, burning brightly, casting a golden glow on the dark surface of the granite island, lighting up the tiny, expectant face of the child standing beside him.
