The outdated church smelled of mud and forgotten hymns. Faint daylight filtered via stained glass home windows, casting fragmented rainbows throughout empty pews. I pushed the creaking door open, uncertain why I felt drawn to this deserted place—solely that one thing had pulled me off the street, via the iron gate, and inside.
That’s once I noticed her.
She stood on the altar, completely nonetheless.
A lady in a black marriage ceremony costume.
Her robe flowed like smoke round her toes, heavy with velvet and age. A fragile black veil coated her face, and in her gloved fingers, she held a bouquet of wilted white lilies. For a second, I believed she was a statue. She didn’t transfer. Didn’t flinch. The silence within the church wrapped round us like a shroud.
I cleared my throat. “Hiya?”
Her head turned, slowly, however she didn’t communicate. Simply stared.
“I… didn’t imply to intrude,” I mentioned, all of a sudden feeling silly. “I used to be simply passing via.”
She nodded as soon as, gently. As if she understood. As if she’d been ready.
“You’re… getting married?” I requested, although the phrases sounded ridiculous.
Her voice was a whisper, barely louder than the wind via damaged panes: “I used to be.”
She walked towards one of many pews and sat, smoothing the folds of her costume like she had achieved it numerous occasions earlier than. The sunshine caught her veil good, and for a short second, I noticed her eyes—hole, red-rimmed, drained.
“He by no means confirmed,” she mentioned. “They mentioned his carriage overturned on the way in which. Or perhaps he modified his thoughts. Nobody ever knew.”
She seemed down on the flowers. “I wore black for mourning. I by no means modified out of it.”
There was no bitterness in her voice. Only a disappointment too outdated for tears.
I didn’t know what to say. I wished to consolation her, nevertheless it felt like interrupting a ritual. A second suspended in time.
“I come again yearly,” she mentioned, lifting her face towards the altar. “Similar day. Similar hour. Simply in case he modifies his thoughts.”
One thing inside me ached.
“Has he?”
She turned to me, and for the primary time, she smiled—a gentle, weary factor that broke my coronary heart.
“No. However hope… is a cussed visitor.”
After which, as if the second had handed, she stood once more.
I blinked. The church was empty.
The pew the place she sat held solely mud.
And the bouquet?
Gone.
