The light of the candle does little to illuminate the larger dark hanger on the floor of which she is crouched. The single lone wax stick sitting on the bottom of a flipped over storage box that has seen better and happier times - perhaps they all have, at least what was left of them. The dust on the floor is thick, many years have passed from the bustling hub of activity it once was, nonetheless, she returns to this very spot every year.
In this very spot every year she lights the very same candle, ever so slowly diminishing in size, reminding her of the years that keep on marching, dragging her forward. In this very spot every year she wonders if she calculated the date right, she had so little to go on, no electronic aids to help her devise and calculate how time flowed between worlds lightyears apart.
It's always the moment when the match strikes the box, catching fire, a spark of light in the never-ending darkness of this world that she feels closest to him. She had been drawn to him like a moth to a flame, though with a small chuckle she admits to herself that he likely had felt the same way about her. Two worlds colliding in a fiery spectacle of fire and light.
She has nothing to go one but this, the small flickering flame of the candle and the gnawing hope that this truly is the right day, that her calculations in a desperate struggle to keep a small piece of him, are indeed correct. The gesture would mean little to him, she knows that, but it's all she's got. So she closes her eyes and lets the small flame and its meaning warm her face, soothe her soul for just a short flicker in time, before opening her eyes and drawing in a deep breath. She doesn't have another candle so she has to be sparing with this one, as she exhales softly, extinguishing the warm glow she whispers the next words with the hope that, wherever he is, he can hear her;
"Happy Birthday Vegeta".