Inside the manor, Rory carried the birthday cake she had made that afternoon over to Vincent.
"Vincent, I made this birthday cake today. Try it and tell me if it tastes good?"
The moment he heard the words birthday cake, Vincent understood. This was something she had prepared specifically for his mother.
He cut a small slice and tasted it.
The cake melted on his tongue—soft, airy, delicately sweet. The texture was lighter than anything he had ever eaten before, the fragrance rich yet gentle.
He had never tasted anything so special. Nor anything so good.
He set the plate aside and pulled Rory into his arms, holding her tightly, as if he wished he could press her into his very blood and bones. His voice was thick, almost unsteady.
"Rory… thank you."
Yesterday, she had already prepared dishes that her mother loved. Today, she had prepared gifts and even learned to bake this cake from scratch.
She did not have to go to such lengths.
