It was raining on the day of his funeral, as if the sky was crying with her. She stood in her black dress under her small umbrella, shivering from the cold and the shock. She couldn’t believe that the day she was supposed to marry him, wear a white dress and smile... had turned into a mourning where the one she loved was being buried. She didn’t scream, didn’t break down — she just stood silently, staring at the coffin as if waiting for him to wake up and prove it was all a lie. Her eyes were frozen, dry of tears, as if her heart had stopped feeling.

The years passed slowly, each day replaying the same scene… the rain, the coffin, and the white rose.

In a quiet café, in a corner she visited every week, she flipped through the pages of her leather-bound notebook, where she kept all his letters and the little notes he used to leave between book pages. She wrote a new line, then suddenly lifted her head, as if something in the air had changed.

A man sat across from her without asking, his eyes already settled on her. He was holding a glass of lemonade. She looked at him in shock… his features were familiar, but more mature, sharper — as if time had carved them with care.

He slowly raised his eyes to meet hers, smiled gently, and said in a low voice:

“I was wondering if you still love lemonade the way you always did.”