A stranger walked into my flower shop, looked at me for five seconds, and said, “You still bite your lower lip when you're nervous.” I dropped the bouquet in my hands. Nobody had said those words to me in eight years. Because the only person who knew that habit was Michael, my first love. The boy who kissed me beneath a mango tree on my eighteenth birthday. The boy who promised to marry me. And the boy who disappeared without a goodbye. I stared at the stranger. “Michael?” He smiled, but his eyes were full of pain. “Hello, Sophie.” I wanted to slap him. I wanted to hug him. I wanted to ask why he had left me crying for months while I waited for a phone call that never came. Instead, I said, “What do you want?” He glanced around my little flower shop. “I want to buy flowers.” “Then buy them and leave.” He nodded, selected a dozen white roses, and paid. As he reached the door, he turned around. “I never stopped loving you.” I laughed bitterly. “You had eight years to tell me that.” “I know.” “Where were you when I needed you?” His smile disappeared. “My father threatened to destroy your family if I stayed with you. I was eighteen, Sophie. I thought leaving was the only way to protect you.” I shook my head. “You could have trusted me enough to tell me.” He lowered his eyes. “You're right.” Then he placed a small envelope on the counter. “I didn't come here to ask you to forgive me. I came to give you something I should have given you eight years ago.” Inside was a photograph of us beneath the mango tree. On the back were six words: I came back to keep my promise. My hands trembled. Before I could ask what he meant, a little girl ran into the shop, threw her arms around Michael, and called him Daddy. Then she looked at me and asked, “Are you the lady in Daddy's old love