**A Shadow on the Eve of Happiness**
In a quiet village nestled at the foot of rolling hills, where mist clung to the ground each morning, Emily celebrated her hen night with friends. Tomorrow, she would become the wife of her fiancé, William. The party was in full swing—glasses clinking, laughter ringing, music filling the air. Then, a knock at the door. Adjusting her dress, Emily went to answer.
“Good evening,” said an elderly woman, her voice soft yet laced with apology. Her wrinkled face seemed faintly familiar.
“Evening,” Emily replied, the air thickening with tension as she waited for the stranger to speak.
“I’ve come to warn you—don’t marry William,” the woman blurted, her gaze piercing like smouldering embers.
“What? Why?” Emily stared, stunned.
—
The night before her wedding, Emily’s friends had thrown her a hen do, as tradition demanded. For years, she had lived in a small cottage on the village outskirts, left to her by her grandmother. It was modest but warm, with wooden floors and windows that framed old oaks. Though her commute took an hour, she never complained. Here, the air smelled of wild thyme, ripe apples, and morning dew. Leaves rustled at dawn, crickets sang at dusk—this simple life filled her with the peace missing from city chaos.
Her friends had suggested a trendy club or restaurant, but Emily insisted on her cottage. This wasn’t just a farewell to single life—it was goodbye to her sanctuary.
William, her fiancé, refused to live in the countryside. “Maybe when we retire, we’ll fancy a garden,” he’d say. “But now? I won’t waste half my day commuting. What’s so great about this backwater? Duller than ditchwater!”
Emily stayed silent. The cottage would remain; she’d visit on weekends. But their views clashed—over money, holidays, raising children. William always made the first move to reconcile, bringing flowers, taking her to cafés, swearing his love. His emotions were fierce, sudden, like a summer storm.
Did she love him? She pushed the thought away. When she lingered, emptiness yawned inside—icy, swallowing all she cherished: dog-eared books, mint tea in her daisy-patterned mug, even her cat purring in her lap. It terrified her. Illusions, surely, yet they felt so real it chilled her spine.
Emily didn’t love William. Still, she walked toward the altar. He was older, successful, steady. “You’ll want for nothing with him,” her friends whispered. She nodded, burying doubts. The day was set. Her white dress hung in the wardrobe, alluring and daunting. Tonight—champagne, strawberries, laughter; tomorrow—vows before the vicar.
Amid the chatter, Emily barely heard the knock. She hesitated—no more guests were expected—then hurried to the door.
“Good evening,” the elderly woman repeated. She looked like a retired schoolmistress: grey hair in a tight bun, a dark cardigan over her blouse, a long skirt, worn shoes. But her eyes—sharp, steel-grey—seemed to see straight through her.
“Evening,” Emily answered, waiting.
“Call me Agatha. I’m Thomas’s mother,” the woman said.
“Is Thomas all right? Or little Oliver?” Emily asked, alarmed. Thomas was her neighbour; Oliver, his son. His wife had left years ago, leaving him with debts and a child. Thomas had shouldered it all—working, raising Oliver firmly but kindly. Emily helped where she could: baking pies, lending Oliver books from the library, planting daisies and phlox by their window. Thomas repaid her—fixing her fence, putting up shelves. Oliver often dragged her on walks; they’d pick blackberries for jam, which she split evenly. She knew Thomas had a mother, but she lived in the next village and rarely visited.
“They’re fine,” Agatha soothed, raising a bony hand. “Thanks to you, Emily. I know how you’ve helped them. Came to see my son today, thought I’d thank you.”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Emily flushed. “Just neighbourly.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Agatha cut in, steel in her tone. “Don’t be cross, Emily. I’m old, but I see true. Don’t marry William.” Her eyes darkened, pinning Emily in place.
“I’m sorry—what? How do you know William? Why say this?” Then it struck her. “Oh! I don’t love your Thomas—we’re just friends!” She forced a laugh.
“I know,” Agatha said calmly. “And I know you’re making a mistake. William isn’t your fate. Happiness won’t follow. Wait—your true match is coming. His name is James.”
Emily shifted, staring into the gathering dusk just to avoid that gaze. Behind her, friends laughed, someone sang off-key, but here on the doorstep, time stood still.
“I don’t understand,” Emily breathed.
“I read the cards,” Agatha murmured. “They don’t lie. Don’t say your vows tomorrow. This is my thanks to you.” She turned, walking slowly toward Thomas’s house.
“Not a schoolmistress—a witch,” Emily thought. She watched her go, shook her head, and returned to the party.
The wedding was lavish. Guests celebrated, but joy eluded her. William grew impatient, worked late, came home smelling of whisky. Emily argued, then pleaded, then stayed silent—nothing changed. He vanished more often. Three years on, she gave up. Packed her things, took her cat, and went back to her grandmother’s cottage. It welcomed her with the scent of herbs and stillness.
Bundles of thyme hung above the door, tied with string. “Keeps ill luck away,” Thomas said sheepishly, smiling. His home now rang with his new wife’s laughter and their toddler’s footsteps. Emily waved and stepped inside.
That evening, cradling a mug, she remembered the hen night and Agatha’s words. She’d shrugged them off—now she wondered. Her phone blinked—a social media message. She hadn’t logged in for ages.
“Hi! Found you at last. Changed your name—took some digging,” wrote James Carter.
Emily opened his profile and froze. They’d grown up together, summers at their grandparents’. As children, they’d dug plots, fished, woven flower crowns. James shielded her from stray dogs; she taught him to ride a bike. Then life pulled them apart. He joined the army, stayed in service. His grandmother’s house stood empty, overgrown.
“Hi,” she replied. They wrote till dawn, revisiting old memories, laughing at past escapades. James had left the army and was returning to the village, dreaming of restoring his grandmother’s home. He had no family. Emily shared her story—the marriage, the return.
Agatha’s prophecy came true. James became her husband. This time, Emily married for love, certain happiness lay ahead—sweet as fresh grass and morning dew.
