Before departing on a long journey, people often leave behind a promise of return, like a message to those left behind: Wait for me. For the eighteen-year-old girl of those years, all she received from him was a small piece of paper. It bore few words, just a brief promise: We will meet again in the winter of the next snowflower season.
She held that longing close, tucking those simple lines into her heart to cherish for eternity. The young girl had never been fond of planting flowers—or rather, she had no love for things bright and vivid. The modest garden behind her house was only used to grow everyday vegetables. Unlike other plants, vegetables didn’t mind the weather, so she could tend them through all four seasons without trouble. But this winter was different from the usual. Instead of a lush patch of green mustard, she spent the early days of the season turning the soil, spreading fertilizer, and fetching water. She even bought new seeds. This year, the girl wanted to plant snowflowers, harboring a selfish wish that they might sprout and bloom in just a few weeks.
Winter passed, and spring arrived, but the snowflowers did not bloom as she had hoped. Still, the girl kept waiting…
She closed her eyes, and when she opened them, thirty years had passed three times over.
“You’re over thirty now and still haven’t thought about marriage,” her mother said. “I’m afraid there won’t be many chances left.”
“It’s alright,” she replied. “The next snowflower season—I believe he’ll come back.”
That winter, her parents’ illnesses worsened, and they both passed away. A woman now in her middle years, with time’s wrinkles etched clearly on her face, arranged their funeral and bid farewell to the couple who had walked hand in hand to the other side. Married for over forty years, they had only one daughter, who lived a reclusive life, so few close friends came to pay their respects. Most were neighbors or distant relatives who visited occasionally. Dressed in a discreet, elegant black dress that reached her ankles, the woman stood silently by the caskets throughout the ceremony. Her family followed no religion, so the funeral was simple and quiet—no trumpets, no drums, no lively songs.
“Greetings, ma’am,” a young man said. “Tomorrow we’ll complete the final rites for your parents. Does the family have any additional requests? The ceremony will be a bit intricate, so we’d like to confirm with you.”
The final rites were a deeply significant ritual, the last journey shared between the living and the departed before the eternal farewell. A lifetime is long—decades of steps, perhaps hundreds of thousands or millions of kilometers traveled. But the final journey is brief, a single moment, and once it’s over, there’s no return… only rest in the vast embrace of Mother Earth.
“If you have no further instructions, I’ll take my leave,” the young man continued. “But I have something to say privately, if you don’t mind me being nosy. I’ve noticed you haven’t rested at all these past few days, and I haven’t seen your husband around. I hope tomorrow you and he can walk this final path together, supporting each other. I’m truly sorry for speaking out of turn, but your face looks so pale—I couldn’t help but say something.”
“You’re a kind girl,” the woman replied. “My health is fine, so don’t worry too much. As for the other matter… I’ve never been married.”
“I—I’m so sorry for assuming,” the young man stammered. “Please rest a little, ma’am. Tomorrow will be busy.”
And so that winter passed—a season of sorrow and regret, yet the snowflowers still did not bloom.
“Mother, why don’t you listen to me?” her daughter said. “It’s cold outside in the garden. You don’t need to carry water to tend the plants yourself. Let me do it when I get home from work.”
“My dear daughter, I know you worry about my health,” the woman replied. “But sitting idle all day is unbearable for me. Besides, I’ve tended this garden for years. When I think about it, it feels like I’ve spent my entire life with it.”
“Mother, you grow vegetables in spring, summer, and fall. Why do you only till the soil in winter and leave it bare?”
The woman, once a vibrant eighteen-year-old glowing like the morning sun, had reached her forties by some winter day, becoming a composed and mature woman. Her youthful beauty had slipped away like a gentle autumn breeze, scattering golden leaves along the path. With one more blink, she was an old woman, nearing the final notes of life’s melody. Her eyes, dimming with age, required glasses, and her hands trembled despite layers of thick clothing. Her face remained calm as a still lake, but her eyes curved slightly with a tender, wistful smile when she spoke of it.
“I’m planting snowflowers,” she said.
On a late winter day, colder than usual, with light snow falling outside the window, the woman sat in her chair, holding the letter from long ago. Though carefully preserved, the paper had yellowed with time’s relentless passage, and the ink had blurred—or perhaps it was her failing eyes. The chair was meant for two, but she sat alone on one side. The fireplace crackled, burning logs snapping softly, yet her world remained silent… filled only with the scent of stillness.
Her funeral was prepared and completed at the start of spring. Her adopted daughter buried her carefully in the communal cemetery, beside her parents’ graves. During the final rites, only the daughter and her husband stood together to send her off to her eternal rest. He was a tall young man, not strikingly handsome but radiating kindness and warmth—a quality that had earned the old woman’s high regard. Seven years earlier, she had introduced him to her daughter and later stood as the bride’s representative at their wedding.
“Mom, I found this!” the little girl said.
“Ngọc Hoa, why are you rummaging through Grandma’s things?” her mother asked.
The woman, now in her thirties—around the same age her mother had been—sat beside her five- or six-year-old daughter and took the carefully wrapped piece of paper. She unfolded it slowly, reading its contents. She had always been curious about what was written inside but had never dared to ask or sneak a peek, for when her mother was alive, this was more precious to her than money or gold. Inside was a single, simple line, written in exquisitely beautiful handwriting—so beautiful it captivated the eye, reluctant to look away. The writer must have been truly talented. She read each word clearly:
We will meet again in the winter of the next snowflower season.
The young woman didn’t fully grasp the meaning of those words, but as she opened the paper further, a pressed flower slipped out, falling to the floor. When she bent to pick it up, she saw it was a white petal, preserved between two panes of glass. The glass was still crystal clear, and the flower within remained unchanged, as if frozen in time. It was a snowflower, often called a white snow blossom. How ironic…
Now she understood why, despite the many men who had come hoping to share her mother’s life, she had always refused without a second thought. Whether to laugh or cry, she didn’t know…
Early spring was a good time to visit the graves of the departed. The family of three drove ten kilometers to the communal cemetery. It was their first Lunar New Year without her, and though the family’s mood was slightly subdued, they were slowly adjusting to the absence. Her mother’s grave lay beside her parents’, so they cleaned the grass around all three. Watching her parents work, the little girl, ever so adorable, didn’t run around or play but stayed close, waiting for small tasks. As they cleaned her grandmother’s grave, the sharp-eyed girl noticed something special and pointed it out to her mother. The woman followed her daughter’s tiny hand and smiled softly, carefully tending her mother’s grave.
When they finished, the family of three lit incense for all three graves, praying for their ancestors’ blessings, for their little girl to grow strong, and for the family’s peace and happiness.
“Let’s go home, dear,” she said to her husband. “I think Mother must be happy today.”
“Yes,” he replied. “I think she’s very happy.”
The BMW’s engine roared to life, breaking the quiet with a brief chime. But as the car drove away, the fleeting liveliness faded. The morning breeze, warmed by sunlight, rustled through the cemetery, swaying wildflowers and grass. At the grave of the woman who had spent her life waiting for someone’s return, now neatly tended, a flower remained unnoticed in the garden bed.
Its petals were thin, white, and slightly elongated, with a faint pink blush at the edges, like the shy cheeks of a young girl. The golden stamen at its center, small but vibrant, stood out against the white, a striking accent like sunlight lingering in a clear sky. Why it was called a snowflower, no one knew. Perhaps from a distance, a cluster of them looked like countless tiny white specks, like snowflakes suspended midair—cold yet breathtakingly beautiful.
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