The sun bathed the village in a soft, golden light, as if the sky itself had decided to bless this day. The air smelled of jasmine and freshly picked flowers. Children ran through the paths, carrying bouquets they had gathered at the edge of the forest. The women laid petals on the ground, tracing a fragrant path leading to a small improvised altar, made of carved wood and a white sheet that swayed gently in the breeze.
Louis, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit in the style of the 90s, stood with trembling hands, his eyes constantly searching for Mylova in the crowd. His hair had been carefully combed, but a rebellious lock still slipped onto his forehead, as if to remind him he had never managed to control everything… except today. Today, he wanted everything to be perfect.
And then, he saw them.
His parents. The ones who had stopped speaking to him because he had chosen to venture into the unknown to rescue his love from hell, the ones who had never dared put an end to that absurd story, even though they were the mayors of the city.
Standing at the end of the aisle, a bright smile on their lips. His mother, in a pastel pink dress—her favorite color—held a small bag as if to contain all the emotion threatening to overwhelm her. His father, his gaze proud but misty, walked toward him with that slow pace that meant: we are truly sorry, my son. We love you more than anything and only want your happiness.
Louis's eyes immediately filled with tears. Not just tears of joy: a flood of memories, regrets, and silent forgiveness. He took one step, then another, and when he reached them, his hands found his mother's. She squeezed them tightly, as if to say: We're here, my son. We've always loved you. His father placed a hand on his shoulder. No words were needed. Louis leaned into them, eyes closed, crying softly.
Further away, Mylova watched them. She smiled, but her heart tightened; a fleeting thought crossed her mind: My mother… she isn't here. Was it by choice? Obligation? Lack of desire? It didn't matter. Today wasn't a day for sadness. Today was her day. She took a deep breath, and her smile grew more genuine.
Her afro was a soft black cloud, full and silky, carefully shaped to crown her radiant face. Her white dress, simple yet elegant, fell to her ankles, revealing her feet in small beaded sandals. The fabric floated around her with each step, as if it followed the discreet rhythm of her heart.
Her father, brother, and little sister sat in the front row. Margaret, heavily pregnant, caressed her belly with a radiant smile, knowing this wedding would be one of the first stories she would tell her child.
When the music began—a gentle tune played on guitar by one of the village elders—everything stilled. The children's laughter faded, the rustling of leaves seemed to disappear. Louis's eyes and Mylova's met. Nothing else existed. There was no past, no worry. Only this moment, when two souls promised to walk together, no matter the storms.
And when Louis reached out his hand to her, it felt as though the entire world smiled with them.
The guitar played softly, its notes dancing in the air. Mylova walked toward Louis, her gaze locked on his, as if each of her steps was an invisible thread tying them closer together. The villagers stood in a line of honor, smiling, some discreetly wiping away tears.
When she reached him, she extended her hand. Louis, trembling, took it and brought it to his lips.
— "Mylova… I never thought someone would look behind my walls and see… me. But you did. You saw my flaws, my fears, my dreams, and you stayed. Today, before everyone, I promise to protect you, cherish you, and love you like a breath… indispensable, natural, eternal."
Mylova's eyes filled with tears, but her smile stayed strong. She squeezed his hand in hers.
— "Louis, you are my light in the middle of the forest, my shelter in the storm. I don't need you to be perfect; I just want you to be you… the man who knows how to laugh with children, work tirelessly, and look at me as if I'm the only person on Earth. I promise to walk beside you, even if the road is dark, and to always keep in us this fire that will never go out."
A murmur of emotion swept through the crowd. The village chief stepped forward with a kind smile.
— "On this day, before those who love you, I declare you husband and wife."
Hands still joined, Louis gently slid the ring he had forged himself onto Mylova's finger. She did the same, placing on his finger the simple band she had crafted with the help of an old woman from the village.
And then… he pulled her into his arms. Not a polite embrace—no. An embrace for a whole lifetime, tight, deep, as if to say: Finally. Applause erupted, children threw petals while laughing. Margaret openly cried, her brother clapped so hard he was louder than everyone else, and Mylova's father's eyes shimmered with emotion.
Louis kissed his wife, and in that kiss, there was everything: the fear of losing her, the joy of having her, and the promise that, no matter what happened, they would always hold on to each other.
Night fell gently over the village, and the lanterns hanging from the trees cast a golden glow that reflected in everyone's eyes. The celebration was still in full swing, children danced to the sound of drums, women laughed around tables full of fragrant dishes. But Louis had already slipped his hand into Mylova's.
— "Come… I have something to show you."
They left the crowd quietly, taking a small path lit by the moon. Mylova felt her heart beat faster—not from fear, but curiosity. When they reached a small wooden house, her breath caught.
The façade was simple yet elegant, with a door carved by the village artisans. Wildflowers climbed the walls. Louis gently pushed the door… and Mylova froze.
Inside, everything breathed warmth and love.
A large handwoven rug covered the floor, the light-patterned curtains danced with the breeze. On the table, a vase filled with fresh flowers she loved so much. The walls were decorated with little paintings gifted by the village children. Every object seemed to tell a story.
— "Louis… it's… it's beautiful."
— "The villagers helped me. Everyone put a piece of their heart here."
She placed her hand on his. They looked at each other for a long moment, in one of those silences that said everything.
— "Do you want to sit down?"
She nodded and sat on the couch. He joined her, keeping a few inches between them. His heart was beating faster than usual.
In his head, questions tumbled: What if I rush her? What if I do something wrong? What if she doesn't want to…
He discreetly took a breath and, to break the distance, gently took her hand.
She answered his gesture, but her fingers were a little cold.
— "I… I don't really know how…"
She didn't finish her sentence. Louis gave a small, shy smile, guessing what she meant. He moved a bit closer, lifted his hand to her face, and brushed aside a strand of her curly hair.
In her head, it was a storm: If I stay still, he'll think I don't want to… If I try something and it's not the right move? What if…
Louis thought: Maybe this is the moment… like in the stories…
So, awkwardly, he placed his fingers on her sleeve. He hesitated, then gently lowered it, revealing her right shoulder—where her mark was. His heart pounded. He met her eyes and suddenly saw a soft fear, a fragility. He wanted to take care of her, but more than anything, he wanted to do it right. Slowly, he touched her mark, just above her shoulder. She shivered immediately, closing her eyes. The memories of that mark haunted her; the brutality of those men had left deep scars. But the gentleness of her husband left her troubled.
He withdrew his hand almost immediately.
— "I… I'm afraid of hurting you."
She looked at him, surprised, then lowered her head with a tiny, almost sad smile.
— "Me too… I'm afraid. Afraid I won't be enough for you…"
— "You are always enough for me. It's me who's afraid of doing wrong and hurting you, Mylova. I'm clumsy and inexperienced. My parents wanted to teach me how to please my future wife, but I thought it was absurd and pointless. Now… I guess I regret it."
He wanted to make her smile to ease the atmosphere, and it worked.
They stayed silent for a few seconds. Louis rubbed the back of his neck, nervous. He tried to laugh to lighten the air.
— "We look like two kids who want to play a game without knowing the rules."
She laughed softly too. And that laugh was enough to break all the tension.
Louis pulled the blanket over them and placed it on their shoulders. They nestled against each other.
— "We have our whole life ahead of us. No need to rush. We're still young, and we love each other. No one, nothing, will force our hand."
— "Yes… we'll go at our own pace."
Then, they talked. For a long time. About everything and nothing. About their childhood, their mistakes, their dreams. Between two bursts of laughter, Louis would place a light kiss on her temple, then on her cheek. Sometimes, their eyes would meet, and their lips would brush in a timid kiss that lingered a little longer each time.
Her fingers slid gently down his arm, tracing circles, then down to his hand, which he squeezed softly. She, in turn, ran her hand through his hair or caressed his neck with tenderness. Their feet tangled under the blanket, as if they never wanted to part again.
It wasn't rushing, nor raw passion… it was a slow dance, made of small touches, discreet kisses, and soothing silences. And when sleep finally claimed them, they drifted off still intertwined, hearts full of tenderness and the certainty that they truly loved each other.