press a kiss to her temple, and when I pull away, notice a cherry blossom in her hair. A flash of pink in a sea of red. I pluck it from her hair and balance it on a fingertip. “Make a wish, ciaróg.” She looks up at the cherry tree above us. “If we stay here long enough, I’m going to have a million wishes,” she says. She squeezes her eyes shut, and when she opens them again, blows the cherry blossom away. It flies from my finger and over the edge of the canal and into the river.
