In the evening when the cicadas’ chirping gradually faded, he sent a message: “Meet at the old place.” Clutching my phone, I stood under the shadow of a plane tree, watching the sunset dye the road a honey-colored hue. Even the opening of each date carried a tacit sense of ritual.We agreed to meet at the new retro café on the corner. As the door opened, a copper bell jingled, and the warm yellow light was filled with the aroma of roasted coffee beans. He habitually pulled out a chair for me, but while I was looking down at the menu, he quietly changed my iced Americano to a hot latte—he remembered my period was approaching, always paying more attention to such small details than I did myself.
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