**A Shadow Before Happiness**
Last night, in a quiet Cotswold village where morning mist clings to the hills, I celebrated my hen party with my closest friends. Tomorrow, I’ll marry my fiancé, Oliver. The house was alive with laughter, clinking glasses, and old pop songs playing in the background—until an unexpected knock at the door interrupted us.
I smoothed my dress and went to answer.
“Good evening,” said the elderly woman standing there, her voice tinged with something like regret. Her face, lined with age, felt vaguely familiar, though I couldn’t place it.
“Hello,” I replied, though the air between us felt suddenly heavy. I waited, unsure what she wanted.
Then she said it. “Don’t marry Oliver.” Her grey eyes bore into me like coals.
“What? Why?” I stared, stunned.
—
It was tradition, after all, to have a hen night before the wedding. For years, I’d lived in my grandmother’s old cottage on the outskirts of the village—small but cosy, with creaky floorboards and windows overlooking an overgrown garden. The commute to work was an hour each way, but I never minded. Here, the air smelled of wild mint and damp earth, the rustling leaves and evening crickets a comfort I’d never find in the city.
My friends had suggested a fancy restaurant or a nightclub, but I insisted on staying home. This wasn’t just a farewell to single life—it was goodbye to my sanctuary.
Oliver had refused outright to live in the countryside. “Maybe when we’re retired and want to grow tomatoes,” he’d say, “but right now? I’m not wasting half my day commuting. Nothing but fields and sheep out there!”
I nodded silently. The cottage would stay. I’d visit on weekends. Yet we disagreed on everything—money, holidays, how we’d raise children. Oliver always made up first, bringing flowers, taking me out for dinner, swearing he adored me. His affection was intense, fleeting, like a summer storm.
Did I love him? I pushed the thought away. Whenever I lingered on it, an emptiness yawned inside me, swallowing everything I cherished—my worn-out paperbacks, tea in my favourite chipped mug, even the ginger tomcat purring in my lap. It terrified me, this cold, hollow dread. Silly thoughts, of course. But they felt real enough to raise gooseflesh.
I didn’t love Oliver. But I was marrying him anyway. He was older, successful, steady. “He’ll take care of you,” my friends whispered. I smiled, hiding my doubts. The wedding was set. My white dress hung in the wardrobe, beautiful and unsettling. Tonight was champagne and laughter—tomorrow, vows at the altar.
Then, the knock.
“Good evening,” the old woman repeated. She looked like a retired schoolmistress: silver hair pinched into a bun, a shabby cardigan over a blouse, sensible shoes. But her eyes—sharp as flint—seemed to see right through me.
“Can I help you?” I asked, uneasy.
“Call me Edith Hartley,” she said. “I’m William’s mother.”
“Is William all right? Or Henry?” My stomach tightened. William was my neighbour—widowed, raising his son alone. I’d helped where I could: bringing cakes, lending books to Henry, planting daisies under their windows. William repaid me by fixing fences and shelves. Henry adored our walks, picking blackberries for the jam I’d then split between us. I knew William had a mother, but she lived miles away, rarely visiting.
“They’re fine,” Edith reassured me, raising a thin hand. “Thanks to you, Charlotte. I know how kind you’ve been. I came to thank you.”
“Oh—it’s nothing, really,” I stammered.
“Not to me.” Her voice turned firm. “Now listen, Charlotte. Don’t marry Oliver.” Her gaze darkened.
“I—what? How do you even know Oliver?” My pulse quickened. Suddenly, I thought I understood. “Oh goodness, you think I— I don’t fancy William! We’re just friends!” I forced a laugh.
“I know that,” Edith said calmly. “But Oliver isn’t your path. Wait. Your true love’s name is James.”
Behind me, my friends shrieked with laughter. On the doorstep, time seemed frozen.
“I don’t… believe in that,” I finally said.
“Suit yourself.” Edith sighed. “But I read the cards, and they never lie.” With that, she turned and shuffled toward William’s house.
“Not a teacher—a proper witch,” I thought, half-joking. I shook my head and rejoined the party.
—
The wedding was lavish, but happiness never came. Oliver grew distant, staying late at work, smelling of whisky. I tried yelling, I tried silence—nothing changed. Three years later, I packed my things, took the cat, and returned to Gran’s cottage. The air smelled of moss and rain, just as I remembered.
Bunches of dried lavender hung above the door. “Keeps away bad luck,” William explained, grinning. His house was full now—a new wife, a baby’s giggles. I waved and went inside.
That evening, sipping tea, I remembered Edith’s warning. Back then, I’d dismissed it. Now, my phone buzzed—a message.
“Found you! Bloody nightmare tracking you down. Married name threw me off.”
James Miller. My childhood friend. Summers spent scrambling through hedges, fishing in the creek. He’d shielded me from the vicar’s snarling terrier; I’d taught him to ride a bike. After school, he’d joined the army, and his gran’s old house stood empty for years.
“Hi,” I replied. We talked until dawn, laughing over old memories. James had left the service and was coming home to fix up his grandmother’s place. No wife, no children. I told him about Oliver, about the cottage.
Edith’s prophecy had come true. James and I married—this time, for love. And for the first time in years, the future smelled of cut grass and morning dew, sweet and certain.
