Dad’s planet finishes a year in a month. Its orbit is just that fast. By the time his daughter turns one year older on Earth, he’s already crossed twelve birthdays on paper.
They had exactly one rule between them: call on her birthday, no matter what. That was it.
For the first few years, it worked fine.
[Call — Year One] “Happy birthday, Hana.” “Dad, your voice is so laggy.” “The signal’s got a long way to travel. Eight already? That went fast.”
But Dad’s calendar kept drifting further from Earth’s. His “next month” started landing somewhere inside her “next year.” He slowly lost track of which date on his side matched her birthday at all.
[Text message] Dad: Sorry — was today your birthday over there? Hana: Three days ago. Don’t worry about it. Dad: I’ll circle it in red next year so I don’t forget.
Except that red circle finished its own lap in a month too, on his side.
So Hana stopped waiting for him to get it right. She decided to meet him on his own calendar instead. She loaded her father’s planetary clock onto her phone and started calling at the start of his month — whatever day worked for him, she’d be the one calling to celebrate.
[Call] “Happy New Year, Dad. Your new year, I mean.” “Wow, look at you keeping up. Already the new year over here.” “Your years really fly by.” “They do. I just keep getting older, faster.”
Meanwhile, Dad had been doing some rethinking of his own.
Her birthday was the one thing he refused to miss. So he talked his employer into letting him live on Earth time — he’d only switch to the fast local calendar for work. He taped an Earth calendar to his wall and circled her birthday in red, thick and unmistakable.
[Text message] Dad: I won’t get it wrong this year. I’m living on Earth time now.
Read. No reply that day.
That autumn — Earth autumn — Hana’s phone rang out of nowhere. An unscheduled call from Dad.
[Call] “Hey, Dad. What’s up? There’s nothing special today.” “No — wait, why did you pick up? It’s not your birthday or anything today.” “Right. I just had a feeling. What’s the date on your calendar?” ”…Hold on. I’ve been going by the Earth calendar. Let me check your date—”
They both went quiet.
Dad had an Earth calendar on his wall. Hana had her father’s star clock on her phone. Each of them had moved onto the other’s calendar — and their “special day” had slipped past both of them again, clean and complete.
“Dad.” “Yeah?” “Today isn’t marked on either calendar. Not yours, not mine.” ”…No, it’s not. Blank slate.” “Then let’s make it this one.”
Hana pressed and held today’s square on her phone’s calendar. Dad pulled the cap off his red pen with his teeth. On a day that belonged to no star’s calendar but their own, they each drew a circle.
“Our day, then.” “Yeah. Our day.”