Compared to the bustling commercial area, the corner bookstore on the snowy day and the nearby hot drink shop are more like a charming haven wrapped in warmth. The glass windows are covered with a thin layer of frost, the bookshelves are filled with the scent of old books, mixed with the aroma of cinnamon apple tea from the hot drink shop. There are no hurried footsteps, only two people sitting leisurely in the snowlight, allowing the fluttering of emotions to quietly take root in the collision of warmth and coolness.
They checked the weather forecast in advance and learned that there would be light snow on the weekend. She specially brought a thick checked scarf, “When we go out, the snow will drift into our necks, so it’s better to wear this to keep warm”; she carried a fluffy backpack, inside which were a heating pad and a novel that she hadn’t finished reading, “I heard that a new batch of prose collections has arrived at the bookshop. Let’s go and have a look.”
As soon as I reached the entrance of the reading room, I saw tiny snow particles swirling down. When I opened the door, the wind chimes tinkled. The owner was sitting behind the cash register, warming himself by the fire, smiling and greeting: “Come in? Has the snow started falling outside?” I nodded and helped her brush off the snowflakes on her shoulders: “Fortunately, I brought a scarf. Otherwise, I would have been freezing.”
The reading room is not large. The bookshelves stretch from the floor to the ceiling. Two plush sofas are placed by the window. She pulls you straight to the prose section, her fingertips running along the spine of the books, pausing on a collection with a cover depicting a small house in the snow: “This title is so gentle, called ‘When the Snow Falls, You Are Seen’.” You approach to take a look and discover that there is a leaf vein bookmark inside the book, “It must have been left by a previous reader, serving as a memento.”
Find a sofa by the window and sit down. She opened the book and began to read. The sunlight, passing through the frosty glass, shone in and spread a faint golden light over her hair. You took out a hand warmer from your bag, charged it and handed it to her: “Put it on your hands first. We’ll go buy hot drinks later.” She took the hand warmer, moved closer to you and brought the book closer: “Look at this part about the snow. It’s exactly the same as outside.” You looked down at the pages. By accident, your nose touched her hairline and you smelled a faint scent of shampoo, like the smell of sunlight after a snowfall.
The snow was falling heavier and heavier. Through the window, one could see a thin layer of white on the roof of the opposite building. You got up and headed towards the nearby hot drink shop. As you pushed the door open, you were enveloped by the warm and fragrant aroma. The owner of the shop smiled and asked, “Would you like two cups of cinnamon apple tea? It’s freshly made and can help you get rid of the cold.” You nodded and added an extra serving of roasted sweet potatoes: “She likes sweet food, and this one is baked a little softer.”
Find a seat by the fireplace, and soon hot drinks and roasted sweet potatoes will be served. The cinnamon apple tea is steaming, with water droplets on the cup walls; the roasted sweet potato has a crack, revealing the golden flesh inside. She scoops a mouthful of tea with a small spoon, her eyes curving into crescent shapes: “So sweet, and with the aroma of cinnamon.” You help her peel off the skin of the sweet potato and hand it to her: “Be careful of the heat, take it slowly.”
After eating the sweet potatoes, the snow became a little less. You were lying on the windowsill watching the snow. Suddenly, she said, “Let’s make a little snowman? Right in the open space outside.” You smiled and nodded. Then you took out your gloves from your bag: “I prepared them for you earlier. They’re pink and match your clothes today very well.”
While making a snowman outside the hot drink shop, the owner came out to help you find two black buttons as eyes. She was in charge of rolling the body of the snowman, and you were in charge of building the head. Your fingers were frozen red but you didn’t care. When the snowman was finished, she took out a red ribbon from her bag and tied it around the snowman’s neck: “This way, you won’t be cold anymore.” You took out your phone and took a photo of her and the snowman. In the photo, she was smiling like a child, and the snowflakes landed on her eyelashes, shining brightly.
When we were leaving, the snow had stopped. She held the book “When the Snow Falls, I See You” in her arms. You were carrying the remaining half cup of cinnamon apple tea, walking on the snowy path, with deep and shallow footprints. Suddenly, she said, “Next time it snows, shall we come here again? Bring a deck of cards and play poker on the sofa in the study room.” I nodded and took off my scarf, wrapped it around her neck and tied it into a beautiful knot: “Sure, next time I’ll bring the hot pot seasoning. We can borrow a stove from the hot drink shop and cook some hot food to eat.”
The beauty of the date between Snow Day Bookstore and the Hot Drink Shop is not about any overly romantic arrangement. Instead, it lies in the contrast between cold and warmth, where one can grasp the most genuine temperature of the other – the warmth of holding each other’s hands, the warmth of building a snowman together, and the warmth of sharing a cup of hot drink. These moments filled with the scent of snow and warmth are as sweet as cinnamon apple tea, as soft as a plush sofa, and keep the fluttering heart hidden in the snow, slowly melting into the gentlest form.