"Some offerings walk to the altar on their own. Others are carried by silence."
— Sayings of the Lost Brides
The house is quiet. Too quiet. The kind that feels intentional. The kind that says: It's done.
I step into my room—and there it is.
The veil.
Laid flat across the bedspread like an offering. No note. No words.
Just fabric, folded with care, like it means something sacred.Or final.
I stare at it, unmoving, until the light outside shifts from gold to gray.
She didn't even ask me. Didn't say goodbye.
Just laid it out like it was always going to be this way. Like she'd been waiting for the sky to come and take me. Like the whole village had.
My hands curl at my sides.
They all heard the wind change. They all felt the stillness in the tide.
And not one of them stopped it.
I walk to the bed, slow and quiet. Not touching the veil. Not yet.
I sit at the edge, pressing my palms into the mattress to stop them from shaking.
And only then—when I let myself breathe again—do I feel it.
The warmth on my neck. The ghost of a kiss I never asked for. The storm in my bones, waking up.
If they've given me to the storm—then let the storm remember my name.