**The Shadow Before Happiness**
In a quiet village nestled at the foot of rolling hills, where morning mist clung to the fields, Evelyn celebrated her wedding eve with the laughter of her closest friends. Tomorrow, she would become the wife of her betrothed, Malcolm. Glasses clinked, music played, and the air hummed with joy—until a knock sounded at the door. Evelyn, smoothing her dress, went to answer it.
“Good evening,” spoke an elderly woman, her voice laced with an odd, apologetic warmth. Her face, lined with age, seemed faintly familiar.
“Good evening,” Evelyn replied, an uneasy silence settling between them. She waited for the woman to continue.
“I’ve come to warn you,” the stranger blurted, her eyes burning like embers. “Do not marry Malcolm.”
“What? Why?” Evelyn stared, stunned, her heart pounding in confusion.
—
The night before her wedding, as tradition demanded, her friends had thrown Evelyn a proper bridal supper. For years, she had lived in a modest cottage on the village’s edge, inherited from her grandmother. The house was humble but warm, with creaking floorboards and windows framed by ancient oaks. Though the journey to work took an hour, Evelyn never complained. Here, the air smelled of sage, ripe apples, and morning dew. Leaves rustled by day, and crickets sang by night—simple comforts that soothed her soul, so unlike the clamour of city life.
Her friends had urged her to celebrate in some fashionable tavern or tearoom, but Evelyn had insisted on staying home. This wasn’t just a farewell to the freedom of maidenhood—it was goodbye to her sanctuary, her little corner of quiet.
Malcolm, her betrothed, had flatly refused to settle in the countryside. “Perhaps when we’re old and grey,” he’d scoffed, “but I won’t waste half my day on a coach ride. What’s out here but boredom?”
Evelyn had nodded silently. The cottage would remain hers; she’d visit on weekends. Yet their views often clashed—sparring over money, holidays, how to raise future children. Malcolm always made amends, bringing flowers, whisking her off to supper, swearing his devotion. His love was fierce, sudden, like a summer storm.
Did Evelyn love him? She pushed the thought away. When she dared to linger on it, an emptiness yawned inside her—cold and devouring, swallowing all she held dear: her worn books, tea in her favourite daisy-painted cup, even the cat purring in her lap. The dread left her trembling. Just foolish fancies, she told herself. Yet they felt so real, her skin prickled with gooseflesh.
Evelyn did not love Malcolm. Still, she planned to wed him. He was older, established, certain. “You’ll want for nothing,” her friends whispered. Evelyn smiled, burying her doubts. The day was set. Her white gown hung in the wardrobe, beautiful and terrifying. Tonight—champagne, strawberries, laughter. And tomorrow—vows before the altar.
Amid the revelry, she barely heard the knock. Then it came again. No more guests were expected. Hurrying to the door, she found the elderly woman waiting.
“Good evening,” the stranger said, her bearing like a retired schoolmistress—grey hair in a tight bun, a dark shawl over her blouse, a long skirt, scuffed shoes. But her eyes—sharp, grey—seemed to pierce straight through Evelyn.
“Good evening,” Evelyn answered, uneasy.
“Call me Margaret Whitmore. I’m Theodore’s mother,” the woman introduced herself.
“Is something wrong with Theodore? Or with James?” Evelyn’s breath caught. Theodore was her neighbour; James, his son. His wife had left years ago, leaving him with the boy and debts. Theodore had endured—working hard, stern but fair with James. Evelyn had helped where she could: baking pies, lending books, planting flowers by their gate—daisies and phlox. Theodore repaid her in turn, mending her fence, putting up shelves. James often tugged her along for walks, gathering blackberries she’d turn into jam, sharing it equally. She knew Theodore had a mother, but she lived in the next village and seldom visited.
“No, they’re well,” Margaret assured, lifting thin hands. “And thanks to you, Evelyn. I know how kind you’ve been. I came to thank you myself.”
“It’s nothing,” Evelyn murmured. “Neighbours ought to—”
“Precisely why I’ve come,” Margaret cut in, her voice suddenly firm. “Forgive me, Evelyn. I’m old, but I see true. Do not marry Malcolm.” Her gaze deepened, locking onto Evelyn’s.
“I beg your pardon?” Evelyn faltered. “How do you— Why would you say such a thing?” Then, with a nervous laugh, “You needn’t worry—I’m not in love with your Theodore!”
“I know,” Margaret said calmly. “And I know you’re making a mistake. Malcolm is not your fate. Wait—your true match is coming. His name is Edmund.”
Evelyn shifted, staring into the gathering dusk rather than meet those eyes. Behind her, friends shrieked with laughter, someone warbling off-key. Yet here, on the doorstep, time seemed to still.
“I don’t understand,” Evelyn whispered.
“I’ve read the cards,” Margaret said softly. “They never lie. Do not wed tomorrow. This is my thanks to you.” With that, she turned and walked slowly toward Theodore’s home.
“Not a schoolmistress—a witch,” Evelyn thought wildly. Shaking her head, she rejoined her friends.
The wedding was splendid. Guests feasted, yet joy eluded Evelyn. Malcolm grew impatient, staying late at work, returning with whisky on his breath. She wept, quarrelled, held her tongue—nothing changed. By the third year, weary of waiting, she packed her trunk, took her cat, and returned to the cottage. It welcomed her with the scent of lavender and silence.
Bundles of sage hung above the lintel, tied with string. “Against ill luck,” Theodore explained with a smile. His home now echoed with his new wife’s laughter and their toddling son’s footsteps. Evelyn waved to them and stepped inside.
That evening, sipping tea, she remembered Margaret’s warning. She’d dismissed it then. Now, she wondered—just as her phone flickered with a message. An old social media account, long neglected.
“Hello! Found you at last. Took some digging—you changed your name,” wrote Edmund Carter.
Evelyn opened his profile and froze. They’d grown up together, summers spent at their grandparents’. As children, they’d dug for worms, caught fish, woven crowns of flowers. Edmund had fended off stray dogs while she taught him to ride a bicycle. Then life pulled them apart—he’d joined the army, stayed on. His grandmother’s home stood empty now, swallowed by brambles.
“Hello,” she typed back. They talked until dawn, reminiscing, laughing. Edmund had left the service, returning to restore the old house. He’d never married. Evelyn confessed her divorce, her homecoming.
Margaret’s prophecy had come true. Edmund became Evelyn’s husband. This time, she married for love—certain that ahead lay only happiness, sweet as wild thyme and morning rain.
