That year, the snow was heavy on the plum branches, and the ginger-date soup he gave her wrapped in an off-white scarf warmed her cold red fingertips. The words "will cook next year" in the old letter were stained with ink. Now the plum blossoms are blooming again in the alley, and she is left holding the empty soup can, waiting for the unfinished "I like you" brought by the wind.
