The Shadow Before Happiness
In a quiet town nestled at the foot of rolling hills, where morning mist clung to the ground, Emma celebrated her hen night with her friends. Tomorrow, she would marry her fiancé, James. Laughter, clinking glasses, and music filled the air—until a sudden knock interrupted the revelry. Emma adjusted her dress and went to answer the door.
“Good evening,” said an elderly woman, her voice soft but tinged with guilt. Her wrinkled face bore a faint familiarity.
“Good evening,” Emma replied, an uneasy silence settling between them. She waited for the stranger to speak.
“I’ve come to warn you—don’t marry James,” the woman blurted out suddenly, piercing Emma with coal-dark eyes.
“What? Why?” Emma stared at her, stunned.
—
The night before the wedding, Emma’s friends had thrown her a traditional hen party. For years, she had lived in a small cottage on the town’s outskirts, inherited from her grandmother. It was modest but warm, with wooden floors and windows that framed old oaks outside. Though her commute took an hour, Emma never complained. Here, the air smelled of wild thyme, ripe apples, and morning dew. Leaves rustled at dawn, crickets sang at dusk, and this simple life soothed her soul—a refuge from the city’s chaos.
Her friends suggested a trendy club or restaurant for the hen night, but Emma insisted on her cottage. This wasn’t just a farewell to single life—it was a goodbye to her sanctuary.
James, her fiancé, refused to live in the countryside. “Maybe when we’re retired,” he’d say, “but I won’t waste half my day commuting. What’s so great about the middle of nowhere? It’s dead boring!”
Emma stayed silent. The cottage would still be here—she’d visit on weekends. But their differences ran deep. They argued over small things and big: money, holidays, how to raise future children. James always apologized first, bringing flowers, taking her to cafés, swearing his love. His affection was intense, fleeting—like a summer storm.
Did Emma love him? She pushed the thought away. When she pondered it, emptiness yawned inside her—icy and vast, swallowing everything dear: well-worn books, tea in her favourite daisy-patterned mug, even her cat purring in her lap. It frightened her.
She didn’t love James. But she married him anyway. He was ten years older, successful, sure of himself. “You’ll never want for anything with him,” her friends whispered. Emma nodded, hiding her doubts. Now, the wedding day loomed. Her white dress hung in the wardrobe, alluring yet terrifying. Tonight—champagne, strawberries, laughter. Tomorrow—vows at the altar.
Amid the chatter, Emma barely heard the knock. She hurried to the door.
“Good evening,” said the old woman. She looked like a retired schoolteacher—silver hair in a tight bun, a dark cardigan over a blouse, a long skirt, scuffed shoes. But her grey eyes bore into Emma’s soul.
“Good evening,” Emma replied, waiting.
“Call me Edith Hampton. I’m Oliver’s mother,” the woman introduced herself.
“Is Oliver alright? Or Henry?” Emma asked, alarmed. Oliver was her neighbour, a single father to young Henry. His wife had left years ago, leaving him with debts and a child. He never complained, working tirelessly to raise his son. Emma helped where she could—baking pies, lending Henry books from the library, planting daisies under their window. Oliver repaid her by fixing her fence or building shelves. Henry often invited her to pick berries, which she turned into jam, sharing it equally.
“They’re fine,” Edith said, raising a frail hand. “Thanks to you. I know how kind you’ve been.”
“It’s nothing,” Emma murmured.
“Don’t be modest,” Edith cut in, her voice firm. “But listen—don’t marry James. He’s not your fate. Wait a little longer. Your true match is William.”
Emma shifted, staring at the darkening garden to avoid those probing eyes. Behind her, friends laughed, someone singing off-key. Time felt suspended on the doorstep.
“I don’t understand,” Emma breathed.
“I read the cards,” Edith said softly. “They never lie. Don’t walk down the aisle tomorrow. This is my thanks to you.” She turned and walked toward Oliver’s house.
“Not a teacher—a witch,” Emma thought. Shaking her head, she rejoined her friends.
The wedding was lavish. Guests celebrated, but happiness never came. James grew irritable, stayed late at work, reeked of whiskey. Emma argued, then stayed silent—nothing changed. Three years later, she packed her things, took her cat, and returned to her grandmother’s cottage. It welcomed her with the scent of herbs and stillness.
Bundles of lavender hung above the door—”keeps the bad away,” Oliver explained sheepishly. His home was now full of laughter from his new wife and their little boy. Emma waved at them and stepped inside.
That evening, sipping tea, she remembered Edith’s warning. She had dismissed it then. Now, her phone lit up—a message from William Carter.
“Found you at last! Took ages with your new name,” he wrote.
Emma opened his profile and froze. They’d grown up together, spending summers with their grandparents—digging in the garden, fishing, making daisy chains. He’d once chased off a neighbour’s dog for her; she’d 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 with weeds.
“Hello,” Emma replied. They talked till dawn, reminiscing, laughing at old memories. William had left the army and was returning to restore his grandmother’s home. He was still single. Emma told him about her marriage, her return.
Edith’s prophecy came true. William became Emma’s husband. This time, she married for love—certain that ahead lay only happiness, scented with fresh grass and morning dew.
