Birthday Girls
The Veil sings to Padma.
It hums to her low half-remembered melodies, croons old lullabies whose lyrics escape her these days. Some days, she thinks she hears snatches of words in familiar voices, and such longing seizes her, it takes everything within her soul not to leap into the shimmery silk.
The singing is always much clearer on her birthday, the voices fading away slowly but surely until there is only a lone voice left when midnight strikes. She sits in front of the Veil with a small cake, sits the closest she ever dares. Two candles flicker about, the flame almost dancing at the rhythm of the shadows.
Padma closes her eyes, and lets the voice wash over her. She chuckles at the familiar giggles, memories of long nights in pajamas playing over and over in her mind. Ghost of hands fuss over her braids, and her mind fills in so easily the chiding tuts, the half-hopping footsteps.
Padma loosens her hair, and her own hands follow the trail of the ghost, learning oh so belatedly her childhood braids. The crooning is in her ear now, completely out of tune, words a strange babble with neither rhyme nor reason. Padma lets out a surprised laugh. The Veil echoes it.
Suddenly there was silence. And so Padma sings. In a frail, crackling voice, she sings.
Happy birthday to us.
Happy birthday to us.
She hopes the Veil would join her.