The next morning. Mahiru came down to the breakfast table, and her eyes went perfectly round. A special omurice was sitting on the table.
On top of the fluffy, soft egg, written small in ketchup, was Congratulations. Steam was still rising gently, and the smell of butter softly tickled the nose. Beside it was even a strawberry pudding, her favorite. The bittersweet gloss of the caramel caught the morning light and shone.
"...Huh. This is..."
"It's your birthday, isn't it? Today."
Mahiru froze.
"...How did you know?"
"It was written on the bulletin board. I caught a glimpse of it a while back."
I said it as if it were nothing. In reality, I'd just remembered something Yume had said in passing, months ago, in the middle of small talk: "Mahiru was born in October, apparently." It felt tactless to point that out, so I kept quiet.
Mahiru stared at the omurice for a while. Then a tear spilled over.
"...I hadn't told anyone today was my birthday."
"Oh, come on. Please don't cry."
"But. Nobody at work remembered either. I was thinking I'd just buy myself a convenience store cake today, all by myself."
Still holding her spoon, Mahiru sniffled and cried.
"...I'm happy. I'm so, so happy."
I quietly set a warm cocoa in front of her.
"Happy birthday."
Word of it spread upstairs.
"Wait a sec," said Yume, her eyes round.
"It was like that on my birthday too."
"Mine too," said Rei.
"Me too," said Rui.
The four of them looked at one another.
On Yume's birthday, there'd been French toast drenched in honey and a homemade cake. On Rei's birthday, top-notch oden and the brand of sake she liked. On Rui's birthday, an extra-large minced-meat cutlet sandwich and a mountain of bite-sized fried chicken.
Every one of them had been perfectly celebrated on the morning of the day, without saying a word.
And it wasn't just a celebration, either. Rei's oden had come on a day when work had worn her down especially badly. Mahiru's omurice had come the very night she'd cried at the office. Something hearty on the days she was down. Something gentle on the days her stomach was tired. As if he'd seen right through to how they felt that very day.
"And what's more," said Mahiru.
"I don't remember ever telling him my birthday. And yet he knew."
"Isn't that, like, fortune-teller level?" said Yume.
"Mr. Manager, aren't you some kind of psychic?"
And so, we come back to that morning from the start.
Chopsticks still in hand, I tilted my head.
"Psychic is going a bit far. I just like to remember what everyone likes, and the days that matter to them, that's all."
"That's what I'm saying—nobody can actually do that."
Mahiru said it with great conviction.
"Normally people forget even their own birthdays. And that's four people. Four people's birthdays and favorite foods, and even what mood they're in that day."
"Well, mood is a bit much..."
"But you get it right, don't you? Something hearty on the days we're down. Something gentle on the days we're tired. It's always just right."
I only gave a vague laugh. That sort of thing was just a habit from long years. Reading someone's face and getting ahead of things: today, this is what they'll need. An occupational hazard, drilled into me far more than I'd ever wanted at my old job.
That night. In the living room, the four of them had their heads together, whispering. When I brought them barley tea, they stopped talking abruptly.
"...What's going on?"
"Nothing!"
Their four voices came out in unison.
This again. Tilting my head, I went back to the kitchen.
Later, Mahiru secretly told me.
The four of them had been talking it over. "We want to celebrate Mr. Manager's birthday too."
They were always the ones being celebrated, and they'd never once celebrated him back. That made them feel somehow sorry, or frustrated, or both.
"So we decided we'd get your birthday out of you," Mahiru said, lowering her voice.
"But."
"But?"
"You just won't tell us. No matter how many times we ask, you dodge it. Mr. Manager."
That's true, I thought. I hadn't told anyone my birthday.
I hadn't meant to be hiding it, particularly. It was just that even when asked, I'd end up being vague.
"My birthday doesn't matter," or "It's not something you celebrate at my age, is it?" I'd say something like that, laugh, and let it pass.
At some point, that had become a habit.
At dinner that evening, Yume brought it up, none too subtly.
"Hey, hey, Mister. When's your birthday?"
"Mine? Hm, when was it again..."
"Who forgets their own birthday?"
"When you get older, you know. It stops mattering."
"You won't tell us at all!"
Yume puffed out her cheeks. I just kept smiling as I ladled out the miso soup.
To be honest.
It had been a very long time since I'd celebrated anything like my own birthday.
Back then, I'd had no room for it. I'd worn my nerves thin doing nothing but staging other people's anniversaries perfectly. My job was creating "special days" for people all over the world.
In between all that, my own birthday would slip by before I knew it. Usually I'd notice the next day, or the day after. It didn't even make me feel lonely.
Celebrating people was something I was good at. Putting together the best possible day for someone. Quietly lining up their favorite foods, discreetly leaving out the ones they didn't like. Arranging, from backstage, the moment when that person shone brightest. That was my job.
But what it felt like to be celebrated. To have someone set the stage for me. To stand at the center of that stage myself.
That was so long ago I couldn't remember.
So I never would have imagined it. That there was still someone who remembered that day, the one I thought I'd forgotten.
And that I would learn it from a single, unexpected phone call—at the time, I had no idea.