The most crucial moment of the ceremony arrived, and the groom abandoned his bride, slipping away to another woman.
The room was narrow, its wallpaper peeling in tiny floral patterns. The air was thick with the smell of an old iron and of cats drifting from the hallway. Poppy perched on the very edge of the bed, untying her shoes while her legs ached after a grueling shift. Earlier that day a husky had been brought into the clinic with a deep slash on its flank. The lads from the neighbouring village explained, He got into a scrap by the derelict cottage. Poppy asked no more questions; the priority was to save the dog.
She slipped off her coat, hung it neatly on a nail, and pulled back the curtain that concealed her tiny kitchen nook: a kettle, a tin of buckwheat, and a single mug with a cracked rim. From the wall beyond, swearing from the third flat drifted up again, but Poppy had long stopped listening. She turned on the radioRetro FMbrewed a cuppa, and settled on the windowsill, staring at the yellowed pane opposite. It was just another ordinary evening, one of countless similar ones.
Dust, iron, and cat scents filled the room as an old 80s love song played on the radio. The buckwheat porridge cooled in the mug. Through the opposite window, someone seemed to have just arrived home, stripped off his coat, hung his jacket, and sat down at a tablealone, perhaps, but not in a council house.
Poppy traced a fingertip across the cold glass and smiled faintly. The day had turned strange: first a wounded dog, then a stranger.
He appeared just before lunch, cradling the bloodstained husky, looking oddly composed. No hat, a light coat, fogged lenses. The waiting room was packedsome patients nervous, others irate. Poppys eyes fixed on him, not because he was handsome, but because he remained calm. He walked in as if he already knew what to do.
Do you have a surgeon on call? he asked, looking straight at her. Shes still alive.
Poppy gave only a nod and led him to the operating theatre. Gloves, scalpel, blood. He held the dogs ears while she stitched the wound; he never flinched.
When the operation ended, he followed her into the corridor. The husky lay under an IV. Arthur reached out.
Arthur.
Poppy.
You saved her.
We did, she corrected.
A faint smile softened his gaze.
Your hands didnt shake.
Just a habit, she shrugged.
He lingered at the door, about to say something else, then slipped a slip of paper with a number on itjust in case. Poppy slipped it into her pocket and forgot about it until evening.
Later, she retrieved the crumpled note from beside her keys. The number was neatly written in blue ink: Arthur. She didnt know it would become the start of something larger. A warm feeling blossomed inside her, first like hot tea, then like springs first breath.
She never wrote the number down; it rested on the edge of the table, almost lost among other scraps while she washed dishes. She glanced at it and thought, Strange, if he called. Then, He wont. Guys like that never call.
The next morning she was ten minutes late for work, and in the reception already sat an irritable lady with a pug and a boy in a hoodie. The usual shift began: injuries, flea bites, insect stings, skin rashes. By lunchtime her back still ached.
At three oclock he returned, this time without the dog, two coffees in hand and a bag of scones. He stood in the doorway, a little shy, like a schoolboy.
May I?
Poppy wiped her hands on her coat and nodded, surprised.
You have no excuse now
I do. Thank you, and would you like to go for a walk after work? If youre not too tired.
He didnt push, didnt rush. He simply asked and then fell silent, giving her the choice. That small freedom eased her a little.
She agreed. At first they walked only as far as the bus stop, then through the park. He walked beside her, chatting about how hed found the dog, why hed chosen their clinic, and where he lived. His tone was easy, without pretence, though his coat and watch clearly cost more than a students budget.
What do you do? she asked when they reached the pond.
I work in IT. Honestly, its boringcodes, servers, projectors, even holograms, he chuckled. Id love a job like yours. Something real, dirty, alive.
Poppy laughed, the first genuine laugh of the day.
He didnt kiss her goodbye. He simply took her hand, gave it a gentle squeeze, and left.
Two days later he returnedwith a leash. The husky had been discharged. That was the beginning.
During the first two weeks he came almost every day, bringing coffee, collecting the dog, or just saying, I missed you. Poppy kept a distance at firstlaughing too loudly, answering too formallybut soon she let the guard down. He became part of her routine, a warm extra shift rather than a draining one.
The flat grew cleaner, she stopped skipping breakfasts, and even the senior resident on the floor once remarked, Youve freshened up, Poppy, with an uncharacteristic smile.
One evening, as she was about to leave, he waited at the entrance in a dark coat, a thermos, and a satisfied grin.
Ive stolen youfor good, he said.
Im exhausted.
So am I.
He drove her somewhere, not aggressively, just confidently. Inside the car smelled of citrus and cinnamon.
Where are we going?
Do you like stars?
What do you mean?
The real night sky. No streetlights, no smog.
They drove about forty minutes beyond the town. The road turned black as ink, headlights picking out the edge of the pavement. In a field stood an old firewatch tower. He was the first to climb, then helped her up.
At the top it was cold and quiet, the Milky Way stretched overhead, a few planes flickered, clouds drifted lazily.
He poured tea from the thermos, unsweetened as she liked.
Im not a romantic, he admitted. I just thought you spend so much time among pain and screams you need to breathe sometimes.
Poppy was silent. Inside her, a strange sensation felt like a cracked bone finally knitting togetherpainful but right.
What if Im scared? she asked suddenly.
I am too, he replied simply.
She looked at him, and for the first time without doubt thought, Maybe it isnt all for nothing.
A month later, he still didnt whisk her away to fancy restaurants or give her rings. He simply helped on market days, waited after her shifts, carried bags of dog food. Once, while she was assisting in surgery, he sat outside the theatre and asked, If you werent a vet, what would you have become? and listened, as if her answer truly mattered.
Poppy still lived in her modest flat, handwashing her laundry, rising at 6:40 a.m. But new details appeared: his sweater on her hook, his key on the communal rack, his coffee on the stovea brew shed never bought herself. She found herself turning at every hallway creak, hoping perhaps he had arrived.
One winter day the clinics heating failed. Poppy had grown used to the chill, but Arthur arrived early with a compact heater.
That fridge youve got there, he said, setting the device against the wall. I dont want you catching a cold.
Im not fragile, she replied, though she turned the heater on.
He lingered at the doorway as if he didnt want to leave.
Listen, he said unexpectedly, being near you feels oddly calm almost too calm. Strange, isnt it?
No, its not strange, she shrugged. Im just me.
He smiled, stepped closer, and gave her a gentle, unforced hug the kind you give to someone you completely trust. She leaned into him, resting her head against his chest, and realised he was the person she could rely on, like a dog that lies beside you not because its trained, but because it feels safe.
From then on he lingered longer, sometimes staying overnight, sometimes waking early to make coffee while Poppy yawned over a mug, grumbling about being late. She tried to keep her old distance, but it slipped away; he had become a quiet, steady presence inside her life.
One night, as she prepared to leave, he said, Youre the only person I can truly trust. You know?
She answered, Youre the only person I can truly trust.
He left, his car pulling out of the courtyard, its indicator flashing into nothing. Only later did she understand that his words brought not joy but a prickling anxietyshe had been singled out and left alone.
The next day a text arrived: Friday, mums dinner. I want you there. No pretence. Just meet. After a pause she typed back, Okay.
On Friday she donned a grey dress shed kept from a professional course, touched up her mascara, and gathered her hair. Her assistant brought over a set of pearls.
Put these on. Theyll add a touch of class, she was told.
She replied with a nervous chuckle, Ill try not to get tangled in the instruments. The house she was invited to was a sleek glass and stone mansion. A Swissstyle guard opened the gate as if she were a VIP. Arthurs black car was already parked. He met her at the door, hugging lightlyan ordinary, slightly embarrassed embrace.
The interior smelled of lavender and an expensive perfume. Abstract paintings hung on the walls, thin needlelike chandeliers glimmered, and the floor reflected like a mirror. Lady Beatrice, a tall woman in a dark navy dress, greeted her with a smile that didnt quite reach her eyes.
Good evening, Poppy, she said. Arthur has spoken of you. Please, make yourself at home.
Poppy shook the offered hand. Good evening. Thank you for having me.
A modest threecourse meal was served, the table set with five forks, a single waiter, and an air of quiet formality. Poppy felt like a decorative piece in a museumbeautiful but out of place. Arthur tried to keep conversation lightmovies, holidays, the dogbut Beatrice steered it toward art, galleries, and a mysterious new collection by Eleanor, a name Poppy didnt recognise.
When Beatrice rose, she remarked, Arthur tends to act on impulse. This will pass.
For the first time, Poppy met her gaze directly. Im not a passing figure. Im real. Believe what you will.
Beatrice raised an eyebrow. We shall see.
After dinner Arthur drove her home. The silence in the car was thick, almost suffocating. At the buildings entrance he took her hand.
Sorry, he murmured.
For what?
For everything this feels more about them than about you.
Poppy nodded. And Im about me. Dont worry.
He kissed her forehead gently, a farewell rather than a promise.
Back in her flat she removed the pearls and placed them neatly on the table. It struck her then: there was no room for her in that grand house. Even with Arthur nearby, she belonged elsewhere.
Weeks later Arthur began arriving later than usual, citing work, something broke in the system. He hovered near the door, indecisive, as if at a crossroads. Poppy tried not to overthink; love, she told herself, could move mountains. She wasnt perfect, and the galleries didnt need her.
Then he turned up one afternoon with a bouquet, a bottle of champagne, and a silver box.
I love you, he declared, dropping to one knee. I dont care what anyone thinks. Will you marry me?
Tears blurred her vision. She laughed, then pulled him close. Are you sure?
Absolutely, he replied.
They planned a swift, intimate weddingno lavish décor, just a loft, some music, and a modest buffet. Poppy borrowed a simple dress with a lace bodice, slightly loose at the waist, but it felt like her own. She invited only her aunt, who had raised her.
Aunt Gilly, Im sorry, my blood pressure is spiking, cant make it, the aunt replied, and its not your business, really.
On wedding morning Poppy woke at five, pressed her dress, applied a dab of mascara before a tiny mirror, drank tea while watching the street. Her heart thumpednot from joy, but from the weight of stepping into the unknown, like standing at the edge of a diving board.
When she arrived at the venue, the doors opened to a scene straight out of a film: white ribbons, live music, mimosa bouquets, photographers snapping away, a floral arch. Arthur stood beneath it in a crisp suit, smiling.
She walked toward him, throat tight.
He looked at her
And walked past.
He strode confidently toward a stunning woman in a champagnecoloured gown, escorted by a dapper gentleman.
My dear Eleanor, he announced, you are my bride. My love.
Poppy stood beneath the arch, the dress suddenly feeling alien. A cold shot through her shoulders.
Excuse me, he said, turning back. You seem to be in the wrong hall.
Applause erupted, laughter filled the room. She remained frozen, watching him embrace Eleanor, watching Inganow lady Beatricekiss Eleanors cheek, watching guests capture the moment on their phones. It was a performance, and she was an unwitting extra.
She turned and fled. Her dress snagged the threshold, the heel clicking against the marble as she slipped down the stairs. The noise of clinking glasses and cheering faded behind her. She ran out onto a street damp from recent rain, the pavement glistening.
A woman in high heels stopped her at a curb, a teenage gang loitered under a awning, nobody turned to look. She kept moving, crossing streets, passing shop windows and laundries, strangers watching a dishevelled bride with smudged mascara and a torn veil.
She tried to sit on the curb outside a business centre, but a security guard gestured sharply, Miss, you cant be here. Move on.
She complied, walking barefoot after shedding her shoes, the world a blur of strangers and traffic. At a bus stop she slumped, the worlds rush sweeping past her.
A black SUV pulled up, its door opening slightly. A voice called, Excuse me youre Poppy, arent you?
An elderly man in a crisp suit stepped out. He looked familiar, though she couldnt place him.
I dont remember you, she whispered.
He lowered his voice, Two years ago, near the maternity ward, I had a heart attack. You stayed, called an ambulance, held my head on your lap, held my hand. You saved my life.
A flash of memory: cold, sirens, a hurried bus. She had missed her own ride that day, but had saved a stranger.
It was you, she muttered.
Yes, he replied. Ive been looking for you ever since. I wanted to thank you, but you walked away. Now Im offering you a place.
He opened the passenger door. She slipped in without questionthere was nowhere else to go.
Inside the car the scent of leather and fresh mint filled the air. George, as he introduced himself, offered no questions, only a warm blanket and a heater. After a pause he said, I live outside town. My son needs someonenot a nurse, not a caretakerjust someone who wont turn away, wont be frightened.
Poppy looked out at the rainspattered windows. Somewhere, a loft held a party for someone elses love.
Alright, she said. Ill go with you.
Georges house was modest brick, no grand statues or orchestras, just a hearth, the smell of fresh bread, and a quiet that felt like home.
In the hallway, Poppy discovered a shirt belonging to Georges late wife. She changed into fresh clothes, washed her face, and stared at herself in the mirrorher eyes still bright, her spirit intact.
George set a tray with tea. My son, Victor, thirty, lost a leg in an accident a year ago. He used to be a climbing instructor, now he barely speaks. Caregivers quit. He needs someone who wont run away.
Why me? she asked.
Because you helped a stranger when you could have turned your back. Because you chose the hard path, not the easy one.
They climbed the stairs toIn the quiet of that modest home, Poppy finally realized that a life lived for others, even in the smallest acts of steadfast care, was the truest measure of her own happiness.
