Peter’s tears splashed onto the letter. Lila watched him, her eyes—Sally’s eyes—wide and unblinking.
“Mama said you’d cry,” she said matter-of-factly, handing him a tissue from her coat pocket. “She also said to tell you she never forgot the prom.”
Peter laughed through his tears, pulling Lila into a hug. She stiffened at first, then relaxed, her small arms wrapping around his neck. The yellow umbrella tilted, catching the glow of the Christmas lights.
That night, Peter took Lila for hot chocolate. She chattered about her favorite books, her pet hamster, and the way her mom used to sing off-key in the shower. Peter listened, memorizing every detail.
When they parted, Lila pressed the umbrella into his hands. “Mama said you should keep it,” she said. “But maybe… maybe we can meet here again next year? With a new umbrella?”
Peter squeezed her hand. “Absolutely. And I’ll bring cookies. Your mom loved cookies.”
As he walked home, the umbrella swung gently at his side. The snow fell thicker, but the weight of the letter in his pocket felt lighter somehow—a bittersweet reminder that love, like Christmas lights, could outshine even the darkest winters.
Epilogue
The next Christmas Eve, Times Square buzzed with snowflakes and carolers. Peter waited beneath the tree, a yellow umbrella in one hand and a plate of burnt cookies in the other.
Lila bounded toward him, her laughter a bell in the cold. “You’re late!” she accused, but her grin betrayed her.
Peter handed her the cookies. “Blame the oven. Your mom’s recipes are tricky.”
She popped a cookie into her mouth, scrunching her nose. “Ew, these are terrible.”
He ruffled her hair. “Perfect, then. They’re just like the ones she used to make.”
As they walked, Lila slipped her hand into his. Above them, the yellow umbrella danced with the snow—a promise kept, a connection reborn.
