Tomorrow is her birthday. In her head it feels like a typhoon the weather department had been warning her of for a year. She spent the last two days boarding up her windows and stocking supplies. She spent quality time with the people who cared for her, politely ushering them to leave her alone at the end of it. It is almost time now. She can do nothing more but wait.
In her head the crossroad looked like any other crossroad. Four identical roads meeting at a deserted stretch, lit by a single, quavering street lamp. The silence was so thick she felt it breathing down her neck. The lamp starts convulsing. Flicker. Flicker. Dead.
As far as she can remember, her birthdays were always bittersweet. She adored them but they terrified her too. Every year she tried her birthday on the scale. Never has there been a perfect birthday. She was always disappointed with the amount of love. It was never enough for her. They were too forced. Cloyingly so.
The boarded-up memories begin to shake. The storm is not too far away. She tries to distract herself with her chores. Folding clothes is always a good option. Thunder loudly jeers at her. His vicious scorn makes her house cower. The hour was soon approaching.
She has to choose. The skies begin to lighten, lines of bruised purple ink. One lone songbird breaks through the stifling silence, with a lonely song of victory. She brushes away her tears. She falls to her knees.
So much has been lost and not enough found. Her guttural sobs wrack through her.
The clock strikes twelve. Sunshine floods her heart. The storm never comes. The crossroads fade to a sliver of a path through the woods. The oldest trees tower over her ushering her forward with a happy rustle. The shorter ones daintily shake their flowers.
She stares awestruck. It is a perfect birthday.