**A Shadow on the Eve of Joy**
In a quiet village nestled below the rolling hills, where morning mist clung to the fields, Evelyn and her friends celebrated her hen night with laughter and clinking glasses. Tomorrow, she would become the wife of her fiancé, William. The air buzzed with music and chatter until an unexpected knock echoed at the door. Evelyn smoothed her dress and went to answer.
“Good evening,” said an elderly woman, her voice tinged with an apologetic softness. Wrinkles mapped her face, yet there was something oddly familiar about her.
“Good evening,” Evelyn replied, the silence thickening between them. She waited, uneasy.
“I came to warn you,” the stranger blurted, her coal-dark eyes boring into Evelyn. “Don’t marry William.”
“What? Why?” Evelyn gaped at her, stunned.
—
The night before the wedding, Evelyn had insisted on hosting her hen do in the cottage she’d inherited from her grandmother—a humble, creaky place with wooden floors and windows framed by ancient oaks. Though the commute to work took an hour, she never minded. Here, the air smelled of wild sage, ripe apples, and morning dew. Leaves rustled by day, crickets sang by night, and the simplicity of it all soothed her soul, so unlike the city’s relentless rush.
Her friends had suggested a trendy club or restaurant, but Evelyn refused. This wasn’t just a farewell to singlehood—it was goodbye to her sanctuary.
William, her fiancé, had flatly refused to live in the countryside. “Maybe when we’re retired,” he’d scoffed. “But I won’t waste half my day commuting. What’s out here? Nothing but dull fields and sheep.”
Evelyn bit her tongue. The cottage would remain. She’d visit on weekends. But their disagreements piled up—money, holidays, how to raise children. William always apologized first, arriving with roses, whisking her to cafés, swearing his love like a summer storm—bright and fleeting.
Did she love him? She shoved the thought away. When she dared to dwell on it, emptiness yawned inside her, swallowing everything dear: the dog-eared books on her shelf, the chamomile tea in her favourite daisy-painted mug, even the purring tabby curled in her lap. It was just a passing fear, yet it felt terrifyingly real.
Evelyn didn’t love William. But she would marry him anyway. He was older, established, dependable. “You’ll never want for anything with him,” her friends murmured. Evelyn nodded, burying her doubts. The date was set. Her white dress hung in the closet, beautiful and daunting. Tonight—champagne, strawberries, laughter. Tomorrow—vows before an altar.
Amid the revelry, the knock came again. No more guests were expected. Evelyn hurried to the door.
“Good evening,” said the woman. She looked like a retired schoolmarm—steel-gray hair in a tight bun, a faded cardigan over a blouse, scuffed loafers. But her eyes, sharp and gray, seemed to see straight through Evelyn.
“Good evening,” Evelyn repeated, waiting.
“Call me Edith Turner. I’m Thomas Abbott’s mother,” the woman introduced herself.
“Is Thomas alright? Or little Oliver?” Evelyn asked, alarmed. Thomas was her neighbor, a widower raising his son alone after his wife left years ago. Evelyn often helped—baking pies, lending Oliver books from the library, planting marigolds and lavender under their windows. Thomas returned the favor, fixing her fence or putting up shelves. Oliver adored her, dragging her on berry-picking adventures, the jam they made split evenly between households. She knew Thomas had a mother, but Edith lived in a nearby hamlet and seldom visited.
“They’re well,” Edith said, raising thin hands. “Thanks to you. I came to thank you.”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Evelyn demurred. “Just neighborly kindness…”
“Kindness deserves thanks,” Edith cut in, steel creeping into her voice. “Forgive an old woman, Evelyn. Don’t marry William.” Her gaze darkened.
“Excuse me?” Evelyn blinked. “How do you even know William? Why would you—” A thought struck her. “Oh! I don’t—I’m not in love with Thomas! We’re just friends!”
“I know,” Edith said calmly. “But you’re making a mistake. William isn’t your fate. Wait a while. Your true match is coming—his name is James.”
Evelyn shifted, staring at the gathering dusk to avoid those piercing eyes. Behind her, friends shrieked with laughter, someone mangling a pop song. But on the porch, time stood still.
“I don’t understand,” Evelyn whispered.
“I read the cards,” Edith murmured. “They don’t lie. Don’t walk down that aisle tomorrow. This is my thanks to you.” She turned and trudged toward Thomas’s house.
“Not a schoolteacher—a bloody witch,” Evelyn thought. Shaking her head, she rejoined the party.
The wedding was lavish. Guests drank, danced, yet happiness never took root. William grew irritable, staying late at work, reeking of whiskey. Evelyn wept, argued, then fell silent—nothing changed. Three years later, she packed her things, scooped up her cat, and returned to the cottage. It welcomed her with the scent of thyme and silence.
Bundles of sage hung above the door. “Keeps the bad spirits away,” Thomas explained sheepishly, grinning. His house now rang with his new wife’s laughter and their toddler’s footsteps. Evelyn waved at them and stepped inside.
That evening, cradling her mug, she remembered Edith’s words. She’d dismissed them then—but now? Her phone buzzed—a social media notification. She hadn’t logged in for ages.
“Hey, found you! Took ages with the new surname,” read James Whitaker’s message.
Evelyn opened his profile and froze. They’d grown up together, summers spent at their grandparents’. As children, they’d dug in gardens, fished in the creek, woven crowns of clover. James had chased off stray dogs for her; she’d taught him to ride a bike. Then life pulled them apart—he’d joined the army, stayed in service. His gran’s house stood empty, wild with weeds.
“Hey,” she typed back. They talked until dawn, reminiscing, laughing at old scrapes. James had left the army, dreaming of restoring his grandmother’s home. No wife, no kids. Evelyn confessed her failed marriage, her return.
Edith’s prophecy had come true. James became Evelyn’s husband. This time, she married for love—certain that ahead lay only joy, sweet as wild apples and morning dew.
