The paper cranes soar through the sky…
Emily woke up and stretched blissfully. Then she paused, wondering what day it was. She turned her head to check the time, her gaze landing on the cloud of white fabric hanging on the wardrobe door—too long to store inside, so she’d hung it outside to avoid wrinkles. Memories crashed over her like a wave, crushing her so hard she couldn’t breathe.
When she’d tried the dress on in the shop, it felt right for a fleeting moment. James was gone. But Philip was here, alive and attentive, successful and handsome. There was no turning back now. In a few hours, she’d slip into that dress and ride in a wedding car to the registry office.
A shiver ran through her 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 chemotherapy and surgeries, her mother had stared at her with sunken eyes.
“I understand, love. But James isn’t coming back.”
“He’s missing, not dead,” Emily snapped. “He could be a prisoner—they exchange prisoners.”
“Emily, even if he comes back physically unharmed, what state will he be in? Have you seen the news? Do you really want to deal with that? You’re only twenty-four. Your life’s just beginning. And you weren’t together long.”
“Mum, I promised I’d wait. Marrying Philip means betraying him. If James returns—how could I look him in the eye?” Emily’s voice cracked under the weight of tears.
“Shh, don’t shout. He promised he’d come back too. War makes promises easy to make and hard to keep. If he were alive, wouldn’t he have sent word?” Her mother pulled her into a hug.
Emily rested her head on her mum’s shoulder, hearing the rasp of her breath, papery and laboured.
“Mum’s right. Philip’s done so much for us. Got her into the best hospital 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. I can’t say no… She dreams of grandchildren… And here I am, being selfish…”
Emily wiped her tears.
“It’ll be fine, Mum. Don’t worry.”
Her mother sighed, sneaking glances at Emily, discreetly crossing her when she thought she wasn’t looking.
“Don’t be daft. A man like Philip? You’d be mad to let him go,” scolded her friend Maisie, not bothering to hide her envy.
“Then you take him. You’re prettier than me.” Maisie rolled her eyes. “I owe him, don’t you get it?” Emily’s voice rose. “I’ll always owe him. It’s like a gilded cage. He can do whatever he wants, and I’ll never dare complain. Because I owe him. That’s no life—it’s a prison.”
“Don’t be silly. Give it a year, see how you feel. If you can’t stand it, divorce him. Simple.” Maisie shrugged.
Those words sealed it. But as the wedding neared, Emily’s heart grew heavier. “Like he’d ever let me go. Not after all the money he’s poured into us,” she thought bitterly. “Where would I even go? Can’t leave Mum. It’d kill her. She’s just starting to eat again… This is a trap. Just one word—just ‘I’m alive’—and I’d call it off…”
Philip said he loved her, never pushed for intimacy—though once or twice, she’d barely escaped his impatient hands. A posh restaurant was booked, VIP guests invited. The deputy mayor was coming. She couldn’t humiliate him, leave him jilted at the altar. He’d done nothing wrong—he’d saved her mum…
Her mother peeked into the room.
“Still not up? The hairdresser’s coming in ten. Get up and shower. Breakfast’s on the table.”
Emily bolted out of bed and rushed to the bathroom. The question—”What do I do?”—hung in the air, unanswered.
She washed quickly, sat at the table with damp hair. To avoid upsetting her mum, she sipped coffee and nibbled toast, but the bread stuck in her throat.
“That’s it, can’t eat. I feel sick,” she pushed the cup away.
“I didn’t eat before my wedding either. Nerves. Then I drank champagne and nearly made a fool of myself.” Her mother chuckled, then winced.
“What?” Emily tensed.
“Just the stitches pulling.”
The doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it.” Her mother walked off, Emily’s heart pounding like a trapped bird.
The whirlwind of hair and makeup began. Emily didn’t care how she looked—until she glanced in the mirror and gasped. Staring back was a Hollywood starlet, Emilia Clarke.
She’d insisted on no stiff updos, nothing unnatural—and it worked. Her mother clasped her hands, tears glistening.
The stylist left. Maisie helped her into the dress.
“It’s too early,” Emily protested.
“No, it’s not. What if it needs adjusting? Your mum said you’re barely eating.”
“Not you too,” Emily sighed.
The doorbell rang again.
“Will your mum get it?” Maisie asked, lacing the back.
Emily shrugged.
“Don’t move!” Maisie snapped.
Another ring. Maisie dashed to answer, leaving Emily mid-dress. She listened—scuffling, Maisie’s voice:
“Bad luck to see the bride!”
“I came early to check she’s perfect. My wedding, my rules,” Philip insisted.
“She’s beyond perfect. Not letting you in,” Maisie shot back.
The silk dress slipped. Emily adjusted the straps. Then—silence.
She waited, lifted her hem (creased from pooling on the floor), and cracked the door open. No one. Barefoot, she tiptoed out, the dress whispering against the floor.
She peeked into the kitchen—and froze. Maisie stood with her back turned, golden curls cascading down. Philip’s hands rested on her dark blue dress like pale wings.
Why did she notice how nice his hands were? They swayed, locked in a kiss. Heat surged through Emily. She stumbled back, blocked the door with a chair—just for a minute.
She went to the window. Third floor. Narrow ledge, asphalt below.
She wrestled free of the dress, fabric pooling at her feet. She stepped over it—what did it matter now?
“Emily, open up. Philip’s gone,” Maisie called, rattling the knob.
“One sec!” Emily croaked, pulling on jeans and a T-shirt.
Jumping wasn’t an option. The door it was. She yanked the chair free—Maisie shoved.
“Stop!” Emily wrenched it loose.
Maisie barrelled in, nearly hitting the wall. She was shouting, but Emily was already sprinting down the stairs.
Second-floor landing—she almost knocked over her mum chatting with a neighbour.
“Emily, where are you going?”
If she stopped now, she’d lose her nerve. She flew downstairs. No sign of Philip’s car. Where to?
Then she saw him—a man in uniform crossing the courtyard. She ran toward him, gravel biting her bare feet. Up close, she realised her mistake.
“You’re Emily? James showed me your photo,” he said, studying her.
“James? He’s alive?” The man’s face blurred. He caught her before she fell.
“We served together. I got wounded. Before I left, he gave me your address. Lost the note, but I remembered.”
“And James?” Emily couldn’t look away.
Shouts behind her—Maisie and her mum running over. Emily grabbed the soldier’s sleeve, yanked him away, shouting: “Run!”
Later, in a quiet courtyard, he explained: at the hospital, he’d learned James was missing.
“Probably a POW. You’re all done up—getting married?” Disapproval tinged his voice.
“Not anymore.” She told him everything.
“Shouldn’t you go back? For your mum?”
Emily shook her head so hard flowers tumbled from her hair.
He tried to tuck them back—she swatted his hand, mussing her curls.
“Come with me then. I was on my way to you. Haven’t even been home.”
“Your mum? Wife?”
“Just Mum. Never got married. I’m Alex.”
“Go home, Alex. Your mum’s waited long enough.” She stood, wincing as she walked oddly on the sides of her feet.
At home, her mother sighed. “What were you thinking?”
“Sorry, I couldn’t do it. I’ll pay Philip back. Every penny.”
“You silly girl.” Her mum hugged her tight. “I get it. IYears later, when their son Egor took his first steps, Emily watched the paper cranes dance outside the window and finally let herself believe that some promises, though broken, still found a way to be kept.
