The most crucial moment of the ceremony arrived, and the groom abandoned his bride for another. The room was cramped, its wallpaper peeling in tiny daisies. The air smelled of an old iron and the faint scent of cats drifting from the hallway. Emma perched on the edge of the single bed, loosening her shoesher feet ached after a grueling shift at the animal hospital. Earlier that day a husky had been rushed in with a deep laceration. A farmer from a neighbouring village had explained, The dog got into a scrap by the derelict cottage. Emma asked no more questions; the important thing was that the animal was saved.
She slipped off her lab coat, hung it neatly on a nail, and drew aside the curtain that hid her modest kitchenette: a kettle, a tin of buckwheat, and a single mug with a cracked rim. Through the wall, the tenants of the flat three units above were hurling curses again, but Emma had long stopped hearing them. She turned on the radioBBC Radio 2, brewed a cup of tea, and settled on the windowsill, staring at the yellowed sash opposite. It was just another evening, one of the countless ones that had become routine.
Dust, old iron and the lingering smell of cats filled the room. The radio played a nostalgic love ballad from the 80s. The buckwheat porridge cooled in the mug. Emma watched the opposite windows, where it seemed another lone figure had just walked in, stripped off his coat, hung his jacket, and sat at a tablejust as solitary as she felt, though perhaps not in a council block.
She ran a finger over the cold glass and let out a quiet smile. The day had been odd. First, a wounded dog. Thenhim.
He appeared just before lunch, cradling the bloodstained husky, yet he looked remarkably composed. No hat, a light trench coat, his glasses fogged from the heat of the ward. The waiting room was a sea of restless patientssome fidgeting, some shouting. Emmas gaze snagged on him instantly, not because he was handsome, but because he showed no panic. 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.
Emma gave a single nod and led him toward the operating theatre. Gloves, scalpel, bloodhe held the dogs ears steady while she stitched the wound. He never flinched.
When the procedure ended, he followed her into the corridor. The husky lay under an IV drip. James stepped forward, extending his hand.
James, he said.
Emma, she replied.
You saved her.
We she corrected, her voice soft.
He offered a faint smile, his eyes softening. Your hands didnt shake.
Just a habit, she shrugged.
He lingered at the doorway, about to add something, then handed her a slip of paper with a number scribbled in blue inkjust in case. She slipped it into her pocket and forgot about it until evening.
Later, she retrieved the torn note from beside her keys. The number was neatly written: James. She didnt yet realize it would be the start of something larger. A strange warmth spread through her, first like hot tea, then like spring thaw.
She never wrote the number down; it lay on the edge of her table, almost lost among other scraps while she washed dishes. She glanced at it and thought, Strange, if he called No, he wont. He never calls.
The next morning she arrived ten minutes late to work, only to find an irritable old lady with a pug and a hooded boy already waiting in the reception. The usual shift beganfractures, flea bites, tick infestations. By lunch her back finally stopped protesting.
At three oclock he returnedno dog this time, two coffees in hand and a bag of pastries. He stood at the doorway, slightly shy, a hesitant smile playing on his lips.
May I? he asked.
Emma dabbed her hands on her coat and nodded, surprised.
You have no excuse now, he said.
There is one. Thank you, and perhaps a walk after work, if youre not too tired?
He said nothing more, leaving the choice to her. The simple permission lifted a weight off her shoulders.
She agreed. At first they walked only as far as the bus stop, then through the park. He walked beside her, recounting how hed found the husky, why hed chosen their clinic, where he lived. He spoke plainly, without pretension, though his coat was clearly expensive and the watch on his wrist unmistakably costly.
What do you do? she asked when they reached the pond.
Im in IT, he said with a grin. Honestly, its dullcodes, systems, projections, holograms Id rather have a job like yours. Something real, messy, alive.
Emma laughedthe 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 returnedthis time with a leash. The husky had been discharged.
From then on, everything began. For two weeks he visited almost daily, bringing coffee, collecting the dog, or just saying, I missed you. At first Emma kept her distance, laughing too loudly, answering overly formally. Gradually, the barrier fell. He became a part of her lifea warm, steady shift rather than a tiring overtime.
The flat grew cleaner. She stopped skipping breakfast. Even Mrs. Patel, the elderly neighbour on the fourth floor, once said, Emma, you look fresher these days. She smiled, her usual sharp edge softened.
One evening, as Emma prepared to leave, he waited at the entrance in a dark coat, a thermos in hand and a satisfied grin.
Ive stolen youfor good, he declared.
Im tired, she replied.
Even more so.
He led her to his carconfident yet gentle. Inside, citrus and cinnamon filled the air.
Where are we going? she asked.
Do you like stars? he asked.
Excuse me?
The real night sky. No streetlights, no city smog.
They drove for about forty minutes. Outside the town the road was black as ink, only the headlights cutting a swath through the darkness. An old firewatch tower stood in a field. He climbed first, then helped Emma up.
At the top it was cold but quiet. Above them the Milky Way stretched, planes dotted the heavens, slow clouds drifted.
He poured tea from the thermosno sugar, just as she liked.
Im no romantic, he admitted, but I thought someone who spends so much time amid pain and cries needs a breath of fresh air.
Emma was silent. A strange feeling settled in her chest, as if a cracked bone were finally knitting itself back together.
What if Im scared? she asked suddenly.
I am too, he answered simply.
She looked at him, and for the first time without doubt, thought, Maybe it wasnt all for nothing.
A month later, he didnt whisk her to restaurants or present rings. He simply stayed. He drove her to the market on weekends, waited after shifts, helped carry food. Once he even lingered at the operating theatre while she assisted, then asked, If you werent a vet, what would you have been? and listened as if her answer mattered.
Emma still lived in her modest flat, handwashing clothes, rising at 6:40am. New details entered her life: his sweater hanging on her hook, his key on the communal peg, his coffee left on the stovethe very blend she had never bought before. A new habit emergedshe turned at every hallway creak hoping it might be him.
When the clinics heating failed one winter, Emma was accustomed to shivering at work, but James arrived early, holding a portable heater.
This looks like a fridge, he joked, placing the device by the wall. I dont want you catching a cold.
Im not fragile, she replied, though she turned the heater on.
He lingered at the door, as if unwilling to leave.
Listen, he said suddenly, being near you feels oddly calmmaybe too calm.
Nothing odd, Emma shrugged. Im just me.
He smiled, stepped closer, and wrapped his arms around herno passion, no pressure, just the kind of embrace you give someone you trust completely. She didnt pull away; she leaned in, resting her head on his chest. In that moment she knew he was the person she could rely on, like a dog that stays by your side not because its trained, but because it feels safe.
From that night onward he lingered longer, sometimes sleeping over, sometimes waking early to brew coffee while Emma yawned over her mug, grumbling about being late. She tried to keep her old detachment, but it slipped awayhe had become a quiet, invisible part of her world.
One morning he whispered, Youre the only person I can truly trust. She felt the weight of his words.
Youre the only person I can truly trust, she echoed.
He left, the cars indicator flashing into the night. Emma stood at the window, watching it disappear, feeling a strange mix of relief and dreadas if being singled out from the crowd left her exposed.
The next day a message pinged on her phone: Friday, my mothers dinner. I want you there. No fuss, just meet. After a pause she typed, Okay.
On Friday she donned a grey dress shed kept from a postgrad course, touched up her makeup, and slipped on a pair of modest earrings my colleague had handed her. The house she entered was glass and stone, the gate opened by a butler who seemed to greet a dignitary. Jamess car waited at the curb. He met her at the door, gave a light hugordinary, yet tinged with nervousness. He took her hand and led her inside.
The scent of lavender mingled with an expensive perfume. Abstract paintings lined the walls, thin pendant lights glimmered like needles, the floor shone like a mirror. Lady Clarketall, poised, darkblue dress, smile that never reached her eyesgreeted Emma.
Good evening, Emma, she said. James has spoken of you. Please, come in.
Emma shook Lady Clarkes hand. Thank you for having me, she replied.
The table was set with three courses, five place settings, one servant. Emma felt like a piece of décorpretty but out of place. James tried to steer the conversation to films and holidays, but Lady Clarke steered it toward art, galleries, the new Eleanor collectionperhaps youve heard of her, the partners daughter with exquisite taste.
Emma nodded, smiled politely, but inside she sensed she was a temporary guest, a footnote in someone elses story.
When Lady Clarke rose, she tossed over, James is prone to impulsive decisions. This will pass.
Emma looked her straight in the eye for the first time. Im not a passing figure. Im real. Believe me if you wish.
Lady Clarke lifted an eyebrow. We shall see.
After dinner James drove her home. The car was heavy with silence, thick enough to choke. At her door he took her hand.
Sorry, he said.
For what?
For everything it feels more about them than about you.
Emma answered, Im about me. Dont worry.
He placed a gentle kiss on her foreheadmore a farewell than a promise.
Back in her flat, she laid the earrings on the table and realized the house shed entered that night would never be hers.
Weeks later James visited more often, often late, citing work, projects, something broke in the system. He didnt pull away, but he wavered, as if at a crossroads. Emma refused to dwell on it; love, she thought, meant overcoming any obstacle.
Then one Friday he arrived with a bouquet, a bottle of champagne, and a silver box. He was still in his coat, his hair damp from the rain, his eyes bright.
I love you, he declared, dropping to one knee. Forget everyone else. Will you be my wife?
Emma laughed through tears, then pulled him close and asked, Are you sure?
Yes, he answered, because youre the only one Im sure of.
They decided on a simple ceremonyno lavish décor, just a loft, live music, a modest buffet. Emma borrowed a dress from a colleagueplain, lacebodiced, a bit loose at the waist, but as if it were yours. She invited only Aunt Lucy, who had raised her, and turned down any other guests.
On the morning of the wedding Emma woke at five, pressed her dress, applied a touch of makeup in a tiny mirror, sipped coffee while looking out the window. Her heart hammerednot with joy, but with the tension of a diver poised on the brink.
When she arrived at the venue, the door opened to a scene straight from a film: white ribbons, a live string quartet, mimosa bouquets on each table. Photographers clicked, waiters poured champagne. At the far end of the hall an arch of flowers stood, under which James waited in a crisp suit, smiling.
Emma stepped forward, her pulse thudding in her throat.
James looked at her
and walked.
He passed her, heading straight to a newly arrived guesta tall, impeccably dressed woman in a champagnecolored gown, escorted by a handsome gentleman.
Eleanor, he said, youre my bride. My love.
Emma stood beneath the arch, her dress suddenly feeling like a costume. Her shoulders went numb.
He turned, feigning politeness. Im sorry, youve come to the wrong hall, he laughed.
Applause erupted. Someone shouted, Bravo!
Emma remained motionless, watching James embrace Eleanor, watching Lady Clarke kiss her cheek, watching the crowd capture every moment on their phones. It was a performance, and she was a peripheral extra.
She turned, her dress catching on the threshold. Her shoes clattered down the steps. A security guard shouted something she couldnt hear over the roar of her own heartbeat. The world went silent, then deafening.
She fled. Her heels slipped, the dress tangled, and she burst out of the hall into the night. The street was damp, the pavement glistening after rain. A woman in high heels crossed the sidewalk, teenagers smoked under an awning, no one looked back.
She walked, aimlessly, past crossings, courtyards, shop windows, and a car wash. People staredwho would expect a bride in a ruined dress, mascara smeared, veil askew?
At the entrance to a business centre a guard stepped out of his booth.
Miss, you cant be here. Move on, he said.
She nodded, walked away, shoes abandoned by a flowerbed, her life left behind.
She sat on a bus stop bench. Cars roared past, each carrying someone elses destiny. Her own felt suddenly foreign.
A black SUV pulled up. The door cracked open and a voice asked, Excuse me youre Emma, arent you?
She looked up. A man in his sixties, neatly dressed, worried eyes, stood before her. He seemed familiar, though she couldnt place him.
I dont recall you, she whispered.
He stepped closer, his voice soft. Two years ago, near the maternity ward, I had a heart attack. Everyone walked past, but you stayed, called an ambulance, held my head on your lap, held my hand.
Memory flashed: cold, snow, sirens. She had been late for a bus, yet shed saved a stranger.
It was you? she asked.
Yes. Ive been looking for you ever since. I wanted to thank you, but you left. Now I recognize you instantly.
He glanced at her ruined dress, her wet face, the pain she tried to hide.
Come with me, he offered gently. Please.
She slipped into the car without question; there was nowhere else to go.
Inside the vehicle the scent of leather and fresh mint filled the air. He introduced himself as George Whitaker, a retired surgeon. He placed a warm blanket over her and turned on the heater.
After a while he said, I live just outside town. My sonViktorneeds someone. Not a nurse, not a caretakerjust someone who wont turn away. Someone who wont be frightened.
He looked into the rearview mirror. I dont know what happened to you, and Im not asking for explanations. But if you want, we can go there, rest, and you decide what to do next.
Emma stared at the passing streetlights reflecting on puddles. Somewhere far away, her loft party continued without her.
Alright, she said. Ill go.
Georges house was plain brick, no grandeur, no statues, no music, just the smell of fresh bread and wood. In the entryway Emma still wore her drenched dress; George handed her his late wifes shirt. She changed in the bathroom, washed her face, and looked at herself in the mirroreyes still bright, though altered.
In the kitchen a tray of tea awaited. He poured two cups and began, My son Viktor, thirty, lost a leg in an accident six months ago. He used to be a climbing instructor, now he rarely speaks. Caregivers quit, either ignoring him or pushing him away.
Why did you think I could help? Emma asked.
Because you helped a stranger when you could have walked on, George replied, a faint smile on his lips. You chose what was right over what was easy.
They climbed the stairs to Viktors room. The door was ajar; a young man sat by the window, pale, with a sharp jawline, a thin beard, crutches against the wall, his gaze fixed outside.
This is Emma, George announced. SheEmma smiled, took his hand, and felt for the first time that she truly belonged.
