The lights of Times Square shimmered against the wet pavement, glowing red and green from the massive Christmas displays. Snowflakes floated gently through the air like paper confetti, and crowds bustled with laughter and carols. But Peter stood still—motionless among the cheer.
Ten years. He was 28 now, no longer the boy with a corsage and a dream. But he still remembered that night like it was yesterday—how he and Elena clung to each other under the bleachers after prom, her tears soaking into his tuxedo jacket.
Her family was leaving for Europe the next day. There’d been promises—long-distance calls, letters, video chats. And for a while, they held on. But one day, her messages stopped coming. No explanation. No goodbye. Just silence.
But he had held onto one promise above all:
“If we ever lose touch… Christmas Eve. Ten years. Times Square. I’ll be holding a yellow umbrella.”
And so he came.
Now, under the lights of a city that never stopped moving, Peter scanned every face—looking for her.
Then…
A small voice behind him said,
“Are you Peter?”
He turned.
A little girl stood there in a puffy red coat and snow boots, gripping a bright yellow umbrella that was almost too big for her.
Peter’s heart froze.
“…Yes?” he said slowly. “Who are you?”
The girl shifted uncomfortably, glancing down. “My name’s Lila.”
She looked up at him with big brown eyes—Elena’s eyes.
“She’s not coming,” Lila said softly.
Peter knelt down. “You… know Elena?”
The girl nodded, hugging the umbrella tighter. “She’s my mom.”
Peter felt the air leave his lungs.
“She told me… about you,” Lila continued. “About the yellow umbrella. She made me memorize it. She said, ‘If something happens to me… you go to Times Square on Christmas Eve, ten years after prom. You’ll find Peter.’”
Peter’s mouth went dry. “Why didn’t she come herself?”
Lila hesitated. Her voice cracked.
“She died. Two months ago. She got sick really fast. But before she… before she went, she told me I had to be here. She made me promise.”
Peter sank to the ground, tears already streaming down his face. His chest ached as if the cold had pierced straight through his ribs.
“She said… you needed to know she loved you,” Lila whispered. “That she never stopped. That something happened, and she couldn’t find you again. But she always hoped you’d come.”
Peter wiped his eyes, trying and failing to steady his breath. He reached out and gently touched the edge of the umbrella.
“She kept it,” he murmured.
Lila nodded. “It was in her closet with your old letters.”
Peter looked at her, seeing Elena in every feature. And something inside him broke—and mended—all at once.
“I’m glad you came, Lila,” he said quietly. “She would be so proud of you.”
Lila sniffled. “She said you were her first love.”
Peter smiled through his tears. “She was mine, too.”
They stood together in the snow, under that yellow umbrella—the color of promises kept, even through heartbreak.
And though Elena never made it back to Times Square, her memory had.
Through the eyes of her daughter.