# The Day Before the Wedding
### Part I – The White Carnation

Mount Auburn Cemetery on a Saturday afternoon in late October is always brutally beautiful. The narrow paths wind through the red birch and maple forests, the leaves falling onto the artificial lake as if crying for the living. I park my old Subaru in the empty lot, take the white carnations – Emma’s favorite flower because “they are innocent but not weak” – and walk down the familiar path.

I’ve been here every first Sunday of the month for the past three years. I know exactly where to turn left at the lightning-struck Norway spruce, and walk a hundred and twelve steps to get there. The gray marble still stands there, cold and unchanging:

Emma Rose Callahan
March 12, 1988 – November 3, 2022
“She laughed louder than the storm”

I knelt, placed the flowers, and brushed the dry maple leaves off the inscription. My fingers trembled. Tomorrow, at 3:17 p.m., I would stand in Sacred Heart Church in Newton, wearing a black tuxedo, waiting for Sarah Walker to enter in her long white silk gown. We had rehearsed it three times. The priest told me to smile more. Sarah told me not to worry, she wouldn’t run away.

But last night I dreamed of Emma. She was standing at the end of the church aisle, wearing the wedding dress we hadn’t had time to wear, blood seeping from the front of her dress. She didn’t say anything, just looked at me with eyes so sad that I woke up sweating, crying like a baby.

“I’m getting married tomorrow, Emm,” I whispered to the headstone. “I… still feel like an asshole. You told me to keep going, but you didn’t tell me it would hurt this much.”

A cold wind blew by, carrying the last few leaves. I heard light footsteps on the damp ground.

I looked up.

The woman stood about ten paces from the grave. Dark green wool coat, scarf covering half her face, fedora pulled down over her eyes. But I recognized the way she tilted her head slightly—a habit from college when she was confused or thinking of a way to lie without me noticing.

I stood up, the bouquet of flowers falling to the ground.

“Emma?”

She slowly pulled the scarf down.

Time stopped.

It was the face I’d seen a million times in photos, in dreams, in nightmares at night. Green eyes with a small yellow spot in the left pupil. A small mole on the left side of her nose. A small scar on my chin from skiing in Vermont in 2017. A slight lift in my upper lip, as if about to smile, even though I wasn’t.

“Hello, Evan,” she said, her voice hoarse from the cold, but still the voice that had been etched into my bones. “It’s been so long.”

My legs gave way. I staggered forward, but had to hold onto the headstone to steady myself.

“You died,” I repeated like a madman. “You were there. You held me. I wasn’t breathing. You… you buried me.”

Emma—or the one with Emma’s face—stepped closer. She reached out and touched my cheek. Skin warm. Pulse racing. Breath puffed out in white smoke.

“You really didn’t breathe,” she whispered. “But only for four minutes and twenty-three seconds. Long enough for them to declare me clinically dead. Then they took me away—not to Massachusetts General, but to a secret military base in New Hampshire. The highest level of witness protection. I had no right to refuse.”

I held my head, and knelt on the cold ground. “Why? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because the person who wanted to kill me is still out there. And if I contact you even once, you’ll be the first one killed to shut me up.” She knelt down with me, holding my hand tightly. “Evan, listen. That accident wasn’t an accident. The truck driver was Vincent Moretti’s underling—the boss I’m investigating for the Boston Globe. I’m about to publish a series of articles exposing his money laundering through major Boston construction companies. He knew. He struck first.”

I looked up at her, my head spinning like I’d been hit by a truck again. “So… where have you been for the past three years?”

“A small town called Astoria, Oregon. A baker, three cats, and I miss you like crazy every day.” She smiled sadly. “I followed you on Facebook, on Instagram. I knew you met Sarah at the architecture show last spring. I knew you were engaged on Martha’s Vineyard. I knew you were getting married tomorrow. I wasn’t planning on showing up… but I just wanted to see you one last time. From afar. But then I saw you crying… I couldn’t bear it.”

I held her hand tightly, as if afraid she would disappear into thin air. “So what do you want now?”

Emma looked straight into my eyes. Her green eyes were now red.

“I want you to choose.”

“Choose what?”

“Choose to stay with your new life… or come with me. Tonight. The FBI will give us both new identities. We’ll disappear together, somewhere no one will find us. But you’ll have to leave everything behind—Sarah, your friends, your family, your job. Forever.”

I looked at the white carnations lying on the grave—the grave with no actual body in it. Then I looked at Emma, ​​still as beautiful as the day I proposed to her on the Longfellow Bridge in 2016.

“Sarah…” I choked.

“Sarah will be heartbroken,” Emma said, no jealousy, just cold truth. “But she will live on. And if you stay, I will disappear again.

This time, forever. I can’t bear to see you marry someone else, Evan.”

The cold wind blew, swirling dry leaves around our feet.

I stood up, wiping away my tears. My hands trembled as I reached for the phone.

“Hello, Evan?” Sarah’s voice was gentle on the other end.

“Sarah… I’m sorry.” I took a deep breath. “The wedding… is off.”

There was a long silence. Then Sarah asked, her voice not blaming, but heartbroken:

“Because of her… right?”

“Yes.”

“Then go,” she said, her voice breaking. “Go find your true happiness. I… will be fine.”

I hung up. Turned off the phone. Gave Emma my hand.

We left the cemetery as it began to drizzle. I didn’t look back at the grave again.

### Part II – Daniel and Lily Harper

Four months later, I—now Daniel Harper—was standing on the balcony of a small cabin outside Juneau, Alaska. The sea was foggy, the sound of waves crashing in the distance. Emma—now Lily Harper—had her arms around my waist from behind, her chin resting on my shoulder.

“Do you regret it?” she asked.

I turned and kissed her forehead. “Not a day.”

She smiled, but there was something… distant in her eyes that I couldn’t name.

Our new life was so simple it was almost perfect. I worked as a freelance carpenter, taking orders for tables and chairs from motels around the area. Lily opened a small bakery called “Storm & Sugar” – she said the name reminded her of an old tombstone inscription. Every morning I woke up to the smell of baking bread and coffee. She hummed old Norah Jones songs as she kneaded the dough. At night we lay by the fire, her head on my chest, telling me about strange dreams.

But there were nights when I woke up startled by her whispering in the dark. I heard names: Moretti, Astoria, “don’t let him suspect”.

I told myself it was just the after-effects of three years of living in fear.

One afternoon in February, when the snow was falling heavily, Lily received a call from an unknown number. She went out to the balcony to listen, closing the glass door back. I could only see her mouth moving silently, her face pale. When she came back in, she hugged me tightly.

“What’s wrong, honey?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she smiled awkwardly. “It’s just… the security program manager is asking. They’re moving us somewhere else. Safer.”

I nodded, but a vague unease rose in my heart.

### Part III – Confession in the Snow

On the night of March 14 – Emma’s 37th birthday, if she were still alive – I woke at 3am to find her not beside me. The house was dark, except for the blue moonlight shining through the window on the wooden floor.

I walked out to the living room, saw a faint blue light coming from the crack in the door of the small study. I pushed the door open.

Lily sat in front of her old laptop, the screen illuminating her face in the darkness. She was wearing my sweater, her hair tied up, her eyes red. On the screen was an encrypted chat window, the last text still lit:

Vincent Moretti:
20:47
He trusted you completely. Keep him there for a few more months. When I get out, I want to personally kill the bastard who testified against me all those years ago.

I stood there, dumbfounded door.

Lily turned around, saw me, and didn’t flinch. She just slowly closed her laptop, stood up, and walked closer to me.

“You heard everything, right?” Her voice was eerily calm.

I took a step back. “I… am not Moretti’s victim. I am… his daughter.”

Lily nodded, her eyes unblinking.

“Vincent Moretti is my biological father. My mother was his mistress, and he killed her when I was thirteen. I grew up in a family of criminals, but I chose journalism to get revenge. I investigated my own father. I gathered enough evidence to put him in prison for fifteen years. But he bribed the judge and was about to be released early due to ‘ill health’.”

She paused, took a deep breath.

“The accident in 2022 was really staged by him – but not to kill me, but to fake my death, and bring me back under his control. The witness protection program you told me about… was fake. The man you met at the cemetery was your father’s bodyguard. It was all an act.”

I shook my head repeatedly, tears welling up in my eyes. “Then why… why did you drag me along?”

Lily stepped forward and took my hand. Hers was cold.

“Because I love you. Really. But also because… he ordered it. He knew you were the only person in this world I couldn’t lie to completely. He needed a hostage to make sure I wouldn’t betray you again. You were the most beautiful invisible handcuff he could ever come up with.”

She knelt down in front of me, tears finally falling.

“Evan… Daniel… you want to know the most terrible thing? I’ve been meaning to tell you everything for a long time. Many times. But every time I saw you smile, I didn’t have the courage to destroy your life a second time.”

I looked out the window. The snow was still falling heavily, obliterating every footprint.

“So you’re a prisoner now?” I asked hoarsely.

Lily nodded.

“But the most beloved prisoner in the world,” she whispered.

I was silent for a long time. Then I bent down and lifted her face.

“Do you still love me? Really?”

She looked straight into my eyes, not avoiding them.

“Love. More than anything

the day you proposed to me on Longfellow Bridge. More than the day you faked your death to protect me. More than all the lies you ever told me.”

I sighed, hugging her.

“Then we still have time,” I said. “Time to figure out how to get away from him. Together. For real this time.”

Lily shivered in my arms, sobbing like a baby.

Outside, the snow was still falling, but for the first time in a long time, I felt warm.

### Part IV – The Final Twist

Three months later, news across America simultaneously broadcast a video.

In the video, Vincent Moretti – recently released from federal prison – was recaptured at Boston’s Logan Airport. New evidence: hundreds of recordings, videos, and financial documents sent anonymously to the FBI the day he landed in the United States.

The anonymous source left only one line:

“For Emma. The real one.”

No one knows when Daniel and Lily Harper disappeared from Juneau. They only found the bakery “Storm & Sugar” closed and silent, on the counter was an uncut tiramisu cake, on top of which was a small card:

“I’m sorry for loving you too much.

Thank you for giving me the chance to become a better person.

If there is a next life, please marry Sarah.

She deserves it much better than me.

Love you forever,
Emma (not Lily, not Claire, just Emma)”

No one ever found them again.

Some people said they saw a couple who looked like them in a small village in Italy, running a bakery, living quietly, no children, but always holding hands.

Some said they saw them on a small island in the Pacific, the man a carpenter, the woman teaching local children English.

But all that was just a rumor.

As for the truth, only the two of them knew it.

And they chose to take it with them to the grave – a real grave this time, when they were both old, lying side by side, on the stone was carved a simple inscription:

“Here lie two people who loved each other
more than they feared the truth.”

Underneath that inscription, smaller, only those who came closer could see:

“She laughed louder than the storm.

And he chose to dance in it with her – forever.”