On Friday, the rain stopped, and pale sunlight touched the café.
Hana was staying in the small room above the shop.
"Stay until you finish your business, dear," Peggy had said.
Hana's business was the letter, but she could not say it yet.
In the afternoon, she helped Peggy in the warm kitchen.
"At three, Alfred will come," Peggy said, checking the clock.
"Every Friday, he buys one of lemon cake."
"But he never eats it here. He always takes it home."
At three o'clock exactly, the little bell rang.
An old stood at the door, closing his .
"Good afternoon, Peggy. One , please. To take away."
His voice was quiet and , like an old book.
But today, he did not turn to leave.
He held a small card in his thin hand.
"I found this last night, in my wife's old ."
The ink was pale, but the words were clear: Lemon Cake.
"She baked it every Friday, for forty years," he said.
"Since she is gone, I buy yours, and eat it at her table."
The café became very quiet.
Then Peggy smiled softly. "Shall we bake it now? Together?"
Hana washed her hands. "Please, let me help."
The said, "Two lemons. Less sugar, more love."
Alfred laughed a little, and his eyes shone.
"Yes, that is her hand. She always wrote like that."
Hana squeezed the lemons, and Peggy warmed the .
Soon a bright, sweet smell filled the whole café.
Alfred waited by the window with his hat on his knees.
Peggy put one warm on her best plate.
"Today," she said gently, "eat here, with us."
Alfred took one small and closed his eyes.
A ran slowly down his cheek.
"This is it," he whispered. "The taste I shared with my wife."
"Thank you, both. Today, the cake was not ."
Later, he asked Hana, "Where are you from, young lady?"
"From Japan," Hana answered with a small bow.
For one moment, Peggy turned away and washed a clean cup.
Hana saw it, but she said nothing.
At the door, Alfred looked at the wooden box and said, "You know, dear — my letter is in there, too."