Wedding Day
The morning arrived like a held breath finally released. Light pooled through the tall windows of the hall and warmed the wooden floorboards until they seemed to glow. Chairs were arranged in neat rows, flowers tucked into glass vases, and a hush had settled over the place that felt less like silence and more like attention. People moved with the careful choreography of those who know a day can be made or broken by small gestures: a ribbon tied too tight, a boutonnière crooked, a whispered instruction missed.
Isadora stood near the back, the dress a pale promise around her. She had chosen simplicity for a reason—no grand gestures, no fanfare, only the people who mattered and the words she had written herself. Her hands trembled once, then steadied. She breathed in the scent of lilies and lemon oil and felt, beneath the nerves, a steady current of joy. This was the life she had chosen. This was the day she had wanted.
