A soft sob from somewhere to the left.
A man clearing his throat too hard.
Someone whispering, “Oh my God.”
And then Lara lets go of one of your hands only long enough to reach down and lift the edge of her own veil. Tucked into the inside seam of her gown, where almost no one would ever see it unless she showed them, is a small patch of green fabric stitched by hand.
You know the pattern instantly.
The tiny embroidered flowers.
Your breath catches.
It is from your dress.
The world sways so suddenly that if Lara had not still been holding your hand, you might have sat back down without meaning to.
“I came to visit you at the market two months ago when Marco said he had to work late,” she says softly. “You remember I asked if I could use your restroom?”
You nod once, confused and trembling.
