Cranes like little ships drift across the sky…
Emily woke and stretched lazily, then paused to remember what day it was. She turned her head to check the time, but her gaze landed on the billowing white dress hanging outside her wardrobe—too long to fit inside without crumpling. Memories crashed over her like a wave, stealing her breath.
When she’d tried it on in the boutique, for a fleeting moment, it had felt right. James was gone. But Philip was here—alive, attentive, successful, handsome. There was no turning back. In a few hours, she’d wear that dress and ride in a wedding procession to the registry office.
A shiver ran down Emily’s spine at the thought. She turned away from the dress—the symbol of her betrayal.
Yesterday, she’d said as much to her mum. Pale, worn thin by chemo and surgery, her mother had stared at her with hollow eyes.
“I understand, love. But James isn’t coming back.”
“Missing doesn’t mean dead,” Emily snapped. “He could be a prisoner—they exchange prisoners.”
“Sweetheart, even if he comes back physically unharmed, his mind won’t be the same. Have you seen the news? You’re only twenty-four. Life’s just begun. And you two barely knew each other.”
“Mum, I promised I’d wait. Marrying Philip betrays that. What if James returns? How could I face him?” Emily’s voice cracked, tears choking her.
“Hush, don’t shout. He promised he’d come back too. War makes promises cheap. If he were alive, wouldn’t he have sent word?” Her mum pulled her close.
Emily rested her head on her mother’s shoulder, listening to the rasp of her breath—like paper rustling in her lungs.
*Mum’s right. Philip’s done so much for us. Got her into the best clinic in London, paid for treatment. He literally pulled her back from death’s door. She’s still on chemo, but there’s hope. What if she relapses? We’ve no money left—Philip’s our only lifeline. How can I refuse? She dreams of grandchildren… And here I am, selfish, thinking only of myself…*
Emily wiped her tears.
“Everything will be fine, Mum. Don’t worry.”
Her mother sighed, sneaking glances at her, discreetly crossing her when she thought Emily wasn’t looking.
“Don’t be daft. A man like Philip? Hold onto him with both hands,” chided her friend Maisie, envy barely hidden.
“Then *you* hold onto him. You’re prettier than me.”
Maisie shook her head, twirling a finger at her temple.
“I owe him, don’t you get it?” Emily’s voice trembled. “And I’ll always owe him. It’s a gilded cage. He can do as he pleases, and I won’t dare breathe a word. Because I *owe* him. This isn’t a life—it’s a prison.”
“You’re daft. Stay a while, then divorce him if you can’t stand it. Simple,” Maisie said breezily.
Those words sealed it. But as the wedding neared, Emily’s heart grew heavier. *As if he’d ever let me go. Not after pouring all that money into us.* She sighed. *And where would I run? I can’t abandon Mum. It’d kill her. She’s only just starting to eat again. A trap, that’s what this is. Just one word—‘alive’—and I’d call it off…*
Philip said he loved her. He never pushed intimacy, though once or twice, she’d barely escaped his impatience. The posh restaurant was booked, influential guests invited—even the Deputy Mayor. She couldn’t humiliate Philip, leave him jilted at the altar. He’d done nothing wrong. He’d saved her mum…
Her mother peeked in.
“You’re not up yet? The hairstylist’s coming in ten. Shower, then breakfast.”
Emily sprang from bed. The question—*what do I do?*—hung in the air, unanswered.
She washed quickly, sat at the table with damp hair. To spare her mum’s feelings, she sipped coffee and nibbled toast. It stuck in her throat.
“Can’t eat. I feel sick.”
“I couldn’t eat before marrying your dad either. Then I drank champagne and nearly made a fool of myself.” Her mum laughed, then winced.
“What?”
“Scars pulling.”
The doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it.” Her mother shuffled to the hall as Emily’s heart fluttered like a trapped bird.
The whirlwind of hair and makeup began. Emily hardly cared how she looked—until she saw herself in the mirror. A Hollywood starlet, like Keira Knightley, stared back.
She’d insisted on no up-dos or towering styles, just natural elegance. It worked. Her mother clasped her hands, eyes glistening.
The stylist left. Maisie helped her into the dress.
“Too early,” Emily protested.
“Nonsense. What if it needs altering?”
“Not you too.” Emily sighed.
The doorbell chimed again.
“Will your mum get it?” Maisie asked, lacing the back.
Emily shrugged.
“Don’t move!”
Another ring. Maisie dashed to answer, leaving Emily exposed, the silk slipping off her shoulders. Then—silence.
Emily lifted the skirt, tiptoed to the door. No one there. Barefoot, she crept down the hall, the dress whispering against the floor.
The kitchen froze her in place. Maisie’s back was to her, golden waves tumbling down. Philip’s hands—pale against her navy blouse—cupped her shoulders like tiny wings.
Why notice his hands? They swayed, locked in a kiss. Heat surged up Emily’s neck. She fled, barricaded her door with a chair.
The window—third floor, narrow. Asphalt below. No escape.
She wrestled free of the dress, stepping over the crumpled silk. What did it matter now?
“Emily, open up! Philip’s gone,” Maisie called, rattling the handle. The chair wobbled.
“One minute!” Emily choked out, tugging on jeans and a tee.
*Can’t jump, so the door it is.* She yanked the chair free. Maisie burst in, nearly hitting the windowsill.
Emily was already sprinting down the stairs. On the landing, she almost collided with her mum chatting with a neighbor.
“Emily! Where—?”
If she stopped, her courage would fail. She flew downstairs. Philip’s car wasn’t there. Where to go?
A man in uniform approached across the yard. She ran to him, stones biting her bare feet. Up close, she realized her mistake.
“You’re Emily? James showed me your photo.”
“James? He’s alive?” The soldier blurred before her. He steadied her before she fell.
“We fought together. I was wounded. Before they sent me home, he gave me your address. Lost the note, but I remember it.”
“Where is he?” Her voice shook.
Shouts behind her. Emily spun—saw Maisie and her mum running. She grabbed the soldier’s sleeve.
“Run!”
In a quiet courtyard, he explained James was missing—likely captured.
“That hairstyle… You’re getting married?” Disapproval laced his words.
“Not anymore.” She told him everything.
“Shouldn’t you go back? For your mum?”
Emily shook her head, dislodging flowers from her hair. He tried to tuck them back, but she tousled it free.
“Come with me, then. I was headed to you. Haven’t even been home.”
“Family waiting?”
“My mum. Never got round to marrying. I’m Tom.”
“Go home, Tom. Your mum’s waited long enough.” She stood, wincing as gravel dug into her feet.
At home, her mother embraced her.
“Silly girl. I wanted what was best. Forgive me.”
“The dress?”
“Oh! Philip came back, found you gone. Maisie squeezed into it—ridiculous on her. They left together. Suppose he didn’t want to face guests alone. Pity. He’s decent.”
Emily twisted off Philip’s ring.
“Give it here. It’s valuable. Return it later.”
Emily brushed her mother’s warm palm.
“Sorry, Mum. Love you.”
“That soldier… Did he bring word from James?”
“Only that he’s missing—dead or captured.” They talked deep into the night.
Meanwhile, the wedding went ahead. Philip and Maisie stopped at a boutique, bought a new dress. The guests toasted happily.
Next morning, Tom turned up…
Her mum lived two more years. After the funeral, Emily and Tom married quietly—no white dress, no fanfare. Philip took the ring but refused repayment.
Tom never returned to the front, though he longed to. He feared Emily couldn’t bear another loss. James never sentYears later, when their son giggled at the cranes drifting across the sky, Emily whispered, “Look, my love—even the clouds remember.”
