She landed on the nursery floor. The hole in the attic above sealed itself with a wet pop. The birthday cake from earlier was waiting, candles relit, taller now. The gray frosting spelled a new message: WE LIED ABOUT THE WISH. Sarah’s phone vibrated in her pocket—one bar, somehow. A single text from her own number, sent three minutes into the future: “Stop fighting. It only makes the cake sweeter.” The screen cracked in her hand like thin ice. The candles leaned toward her, flames whispering her childhood nickname only her dead grandmother knew. A tiny voice from inside the cake giggled, “Come closer, Grandma sent us.” The frosting began to drip upward, defying gravity, reaching for her face.
