Sarah, as we attended the wedding of my childhood friend, Thomas. We hadn’t seen each other in years—not since he had joined the army and vanished from my daily life—but when I received his invitation, something inside me urged me to go. Sarah was only five, too young to remember her mother, yet old enough to sense the weight I carried.

The ceremony was beautiful, almost unreal. Soft music filled the air, floating gently beneath the high ceiling. The guests whispered among themselves, excitement buzzing like electricity.

Then the moment arrived.

The doors opened.
The bride stepped in, her face hidden beneath a delicate veil.
A soft murmur swept through the church as Thomas lifted it.

My breath caught in my chest.
The world tilted.
Everything inside me collapsed at once.

Before I even understood what was happening, tears were streaming down my face.

Beside me, Sarah tugged at my sleeve.
“Daddy… why are you crying?”

I couldn’t answer. My throat had locked shut. My body felt frozen.

Because I recognized the bride.

She saw me too.

Her eyes widened with a shock so sharp it felt like a blade cutting through the silence. Her smile—carefully placed for the ceremony—vanished. Color drained from her cheeks.

It was Elodie.

Elodie…
My late wife’s closest friend.
The woman who had sat beside Isabelle during her final nights in the hospital.
The woman who disappeared without a trace right after Isabelle died, leaving me with questions I never managed to ask.

And now she stood there, dressed in white, ready to become Thomas’s wife.

My hands trembled. My chest tightened painfully. A buzzing sound filled my ears, drowning out the priest, the music, the murmurs of the crowd. I couldn’t look away from her.

Elodie took a tiny step back.

It was subtle, barely noticeable—unless someone knew her as well as I once did.
She was scared.
Not of the wedding.
Of me.

Sarah whispered again, “Dad, she keeps staring at you…”

My pulse pounded in my temples. A memory, long buried, ripped itself back into my mind.

The night Isabelle died.

I heard her voice—faint, trembling, terrified—whispering words I had dismissed as confusion caused by pain and medication:

“Don’t trust her… she knows everything…”

At the time, I didn’t understand. I didn’t want to understand.

Now I had no choice.

The priest’s voice broke through the fog:

“If anyone objects to this union, speak now…”

A formal phrase. A wedding tradition.

But at that moment, it hit me like an explosion.

Elodie looked directly at me.
And then—so slight no one but me noticed—she nodded.

Not to encourage me.
Not to reassure me.
But to urge me.

She wanted me to speak.

My legs moved on their own. I stood up. A wave of silence swept across the church. Dozens of faces turned toward me. Thomas stared, stunned.

“Sir…?” the priest asked cautiously.

Sarah clung to my hand, frightened.

“Daddy… don’t…”

I opened my mouth—but I never managed to speak.

Because right then, Elodie dropped her bouquet.

The sharp thud echoed through the church like a gunshot.

She stepped forward, tears already spilling down her face.

“I need to talk to him,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Now.”

The guests erupted in confusion. Thomas reached for her arm; she recoiled as if burned.

She walked toward me, each step trembling.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed, barely audible. “I’m so… so sorry about what happened to Isabelle.”

My heart stopped.

She took a shaky breath—like someone preparing to confess a terrible truth.

“I have to tell you everything,” she said. “Before it’s too late.”