The Secret Birthday Feast
It's still too early for dinner. After entering a clean building interior, we gathered all the stockpiled food we'd been saving. The drone circled around it, seemingly baffled.
"Today, I'm thinking of doing some real cooking. Not just warming up canned goods or choking down hardtack—actual cooking."
With hands on my hips, I declared it proudly. The chat exploded with question marks. Tsk-tsking at their dumb reactions, I wagged my finger at them.
"Don't you know what cooking is? Making food with my own hands to eat."
The chat's skepticism is understandable. They know exactly what we usually eat: canned goods, hardtack... preserved stuff only. In a crumbled city, fresh ingredients are impossible to find. For all my bold talk, the setup for cooking is the worst. But this isn't some joke to mess with them.
"You guys probably missed it since the broadcast cut out back then. Our food situation's gotten way better lately. We grabbed a ton from that building we found."
A miraculous encounter not long ago. The Nature Exhibition Hall. It was basically abandoned—repair bots broken everywhere—but preserved foods were still stocked. With just the Cat Robot at the entrance, we loaded up without worry. And as a parting gift before leaving...
"This apple came from there too. Only one, so it's a shame, but hey, getting it at all is a win."
"Even if it looks like this, it's edible."
From the apple tree planting experience zone—the fruit from the only surviving tree there. Apples are usually red. Some varieties green. But this one, from a dying tree maybe, is blue. Like the chat suspects, I was wary too and asked if it was safe before taking it. The Cat Robot gave a thumbs-up. No reason to think it was lying. Still, despite trusting it, it's kinda suspicious. It's blue. Looks like poison apple bait. Worried it'll upset my stomach.
But colors and shapes can change over time, right? Watermelons aren't always round—square ones exist too. Same deal.
Maybe it was a normal fruit pre-apocalypse, just discolored. It's a gift, the first fruit I've seen in this world. Rare chance. Better to eat it than pass.
"I get what you're saying. Save it now to avoid trouble later. But today is a once-in-a-year special day. A little splurging is fine."
Yeah, today it's okay. Moments like this with ample food don't come every day. Miss it, no guarantee of next time. And it has to be today to mean anything.
"It's..."
They're curious too. The chat waits for me to speak. I tease them by pursing my lips. Impatient, angry prods start popping up.
"It's..."
"A secret."
I flashed a cheeky grin. The chat froze for a second. Just as I wondered if it glitched, it erupted in a furious flood. Burning up good. I inwardly sighed in relief at the fiery chat. Good thing we're apart.
"Why's a secret a secret? Because it's secret. Once revealed, it's not anymore—so can't say."
My slick nonsense sets the chat ablaze. This must be what they mean by words that kill. Scary, so better not. Ignoring their rage, we kept prepping. As it wrapped up, Hope tugged my clothes, eyes sparkling with excitement over cooking.
"Unni, what's today? Pulling out all this food—it's weird. You always nag about saving it."
"Was I that naggy?"
"Yup~"
Her bright reply stings a bit. Haha.
"So why pull it all out?"
Even Hope doesn't know. Can't let her find out. Right then, the chat snipes mockingly.
Go ahead, rant all you want. Provoke me, my lips stay sealed. Brushing it off, I patted Hope's head. Smiling warmly at the angelic, puzzled gaze looking up.
"I'll tell you after cooking's done. Secret till then."
"Eek? A secret? Can't you whisper it just to me?"
"Nope."
"Hiiing. Unni has so many secrets. This is secret, that is secret..."
"This time, promise I'll tell after cooking. Can you hold out?"
Hope pouted, then relented with a sigh, sticking out her pinky.
"Promise. Keep it."
"Hope, have you ever seen me lie? Promises kept."
"You don't lie, but you don't tell everything."
"Who said?"
"Grandma."
Sheesh, when'd she say that? With past-life memories, I kept secrets, showed little emotion. My mystique looked that way to adults. Kids should act like kids—I got scolded often.
These less-kind-than-kids folks kept stirring chaos. Good it's just chat—no real noise or it'd be deafening. Shudder at the thought. Sighing at their persistence, I lowered my voice for viewers only, face stern.
"If I say secret, it's secret. Just watch this pretty girl cook and spam compliments."
"Plus, cooking in this world is rare—great show. Curious what comes out?"
If memory serves, cooking streams were popular back then. TV and online. So this apocalypse cooking? Legendary, one-of-a-kind. Chat quiets—persuasion worked.
"Let's make foods you've never tasted."
"Hehe, can I look forward?"
"No disappointment... probably."
"Unni, be more confident here."
"Hope helps well, then best dish ever."
"Trust me only!"
Hope flexed her arms triumphantly. Before cooking, prep first. Boil water for cans, crush assorted hardtacks to powder or chunks. Pour edible powder from the exhibition into a flat metal bowl, add water, knead dough.
"We did this with Grandma sometimes, right Unni? Miss it~"
"Yeah."
"So fun. Tasty too."
"Your face all powdered—hilarious."
"Hmph, you laughed tons. I remember."
Back in the village, we "cooked." Really just mixing cans into plausible food or baking dough bread. Short ingredients, messy, not tasty by any stretch. But fun times. Cooking let us escape reality briefly.
"Love this feel. Soft, chewy—feels good kneading."
"Like Hope's cheeks."
"Wah, mine aren't this soft."
"So chewy, feels great."
"Just wait. I'll knead yours later."
We chatted happily while kneading. Dough done. Stretched, now real deal.
"Hope, grab the cleaned metal sheet."
"Got it~"
Cut dough thin, spread pizza-like. Placed uneven dough on sheet. Spread last saved spaghetti can contents carefully. Mixed other cans. Finished with cheese-flavored hardtack crumbs sprinkled on. Bake fully—pizza unique to here done.
"This'll really taste good?"
"Good smell? Sign it's tasty."
"Sniff sniff... yeah, good smell like Unni said."
"Drooling yet?"
"Yup~"
Hope nodded brightly.
Chat dumps dirt on our earnest food. Times like this, just spam yeah. Whatever chat mood, still ways to go. Used remaining dough and ingredients for more dishes one by one. When all done, outside pitch black.
"Amazing. We made all this? Looks tasty."
Our best-effort fancy dinner. Hope gapes in awe.
Thrilled Hope vs. chat's horrified uproar. Whispering so Hope can't hear:
"Our hard work and that's your reaction? Sigh, you guys hopeless with girlfriends."
"Almost said take it back."
I get their freakout. Big cooking talk, but just fancy preserved mixes. Vs. 21st-century cooking, it's more prank. All effort still freak food—no wonder they cringe. But it's our best. And we're eating, not them.
Before eating, called Hope.
"Hope."
"Yeah?"
"Happy birthday."
Chat freezes. Hope's eyes go wide.
Birthday. Exactly, the day we first met. Days meaningless now, but I keep a diary to mark it. Slight date error? Fine.
"Eh, today's my birthday?"
"Grandma always said birthdays mean tasty food. That's why."
"Ah... so that's it."
Hope tears up, moved. Shy to show crying face, dives into my arms, hiding. Tiny arms hug my waist tight.
"Unni, thank you."
"Once-a-year special day."
Stroke her hair softly. She's grateful, but I ache—I couldn't give better. No sweet cake, candles. No fireworks for heart. No gifts. Just clumsy preserved foods. Pathetic party.
But.
"Unni, love you so much. Together forever."
"Yeah."
Hope beams. I smile too. Meager party ends in laughter.
Cleanup after, Hope sleeps peacefully beside. Sitting carefully, gazing at her innocent face, drone approaches slowly, still on.
"Honestly, birthdays? Don't care."
Chat floods questions, uncomprehending. Their fluster amuses; I chuckle.
"Birthdays celebrate birth, right? Thanks for being born. But does that warmth reach suffering people?"
Born into this world—a blessing? Life uncertain tomorrow. To me with past memories, birthdays mock.
So I hate birthdays.
Scolded often for un-kidlike ways. Grandma said live even in ended world. Thrashing might find birth's meaning. Sincere or comfort? Answer vanished with village.
Heavy topic—chat treads carefully.
"I don't care about birthdays. But this kid's different."
Brush bangs from forehead gently. She lives joyfully even here. Unlike me.
As I rise, sleeping Hope grabs my hem tight. Faint sleep-talk from deep slumber:
"Unni... thank you. Always together..."
Smile softly, kiss forehead, bless.
"Happy birthday again."
*Before broadcast ends, she playfully grins, asking to forget her words. Hiding emotions behind light tone and smile, but viewers can't forget. Past scars seen. Maybe deeper wounds hidden beyond imagining. Pitying her plight, viewers spin fantasies. As many sympathize, some sense discord. Too heavy, serious mood? Past words resurface—dismissed as lore then, but ruminating... A drop of suspicion ripples calm waters.