That year, snow weighed down the plum branches. The ginger-and-red-date soup he brought her, wrapped in his ivory scarf, warmed her frozen, reddened fingertips. In an old letter, the words “I'll make it again next year” blurred with ink stains. Now the plum blossoms bloom again at the mouth of the alley, and all that remains is her holding an empty soup jar, waiting for the wind to carry the “I love you” he never got to finish.
