Mun didn’t know what a birthday was. He only knew hunger, cold, and the indifferent gaze of the old woman who shared his cramped apartment. Five years had passed since he was a tiny, hopeful pup, but the world had offered him nothing but monotony and neglect.
Today, the calendar said it was his fifth birthday. Mun didn’t care. He was used to the routine: wake up, wait for a stale piece of bread, and then sleep. There was no joy, no anticipation, just the endless cycle of existence.
The old woman, Mrs. Elara, shuffled around the apartment, her movements slow and deliberate. She didn’t look at Mun, didn’t acknowledge his presence. He was a piece of furniture, a silent observer of her solitary life. There was no kindness in her eyes, no warmth in her touch.
As the day wore on, a gnawing emptiness settled in Mun’s stomach. He was used to hunger, but today it felt different, more acute. Perhaps it was the collective indifference of the world that amplified his own despair.
He watched as Mrs. Elara ate her dinner, a meager meal that was a feast compared to his usual fare. The aroma of cooked food was a cruel torment, a reminder of the life he could have had. There was no pity in her eyes, no recognition of the creature starving in the same room.
As night fell, Mun curled up in his usual spot, a small, worn-out blanket. The world outside was a blur of lights, a distant symphony of life that seemed so alien to him. He closed his eyes, dreaming of a world filled with warmth, food, and love. But when he woke, the harsh reality of his existence was laid bare.
Another day dawned, and with it, another year of neglect. Mun’s fifth birthday was a silent marker of a life lived in obscurity, a life devoid of joy, love, or even basic sustenance. He was a ghost in his own life, a shadow in a world that had forgotten how to care.
