**A Shadow Before Happiness**
In a quiet village nestled at the foot of rolling hills, where morning mist clung to the fields, Emily and her friends were laughing their way through her hen do. Tomorrow, she’d become Mrs. Michael Thompson. The air buzzed with clinking glasses, chatter, and music—until a knock at the door interrupted the fun. Emily smoothed her dress and went to answer.
“Good evening,” said an elderly woman on the doorstep, her voice tinged with apology. Her wrinkled face held something vaguely familiar.
“Evening,” Emily replied, the silence thickening between them. She waited, uneasy.
“I came to warn you,” the woman blurted, her gaze boring into Emily like hot coals. “Don’t marry Michael.”
*What?* Emily stared, bewildered. *Why on earth—?*
—
The night before the wedding, Emily’s friends had thrown her the traditional hen party. For years, she’d lived in a cosy cottage on the village outskirts, her grandmother’s old place. It was nothing fancy—just wood floors, creaky windows, and ancient oaks rustling outside. The commute was an hour each way, but she never complained. Here, the air smelled of wild thyme, ripe apples, and morning dew. Leaves whispered, crickets sang, and the simplicity of it all soothed her soul in a way city bustle never could.
Her friends had suggested clubbing in London or a fancy meal, but Emily insisted on home. This wasn’t just a farewell to single life—it was goodbye to her sanctuary.
Michael, her fiancé, flatly refused country living. “We’ll retire to some cottage *later*,” he’d say. “Right now, I’m not wasting half my day on trains. What’s even out here? Sheep and boredom!”
Emily bit her tongue. She could visit weekends. But they clashed over everything—money, holidays, hypothetical kids. Michael always smoothed things over: flowers, café dates, passionate declarations. His love was like a summer storm—all thunder and dazzle.
Did she love him? She shoved the thought away. Whenever she lingered on it, cold emptiness swallowed everything dear—her battered paperbacks, mint tea in her daisy-patterned mug, even her cat purring in her lap. The dread made her shiver. Silly, of course. Yet it felt real.
She didn’t love Michael. But she was marrying him anyway. He was older, successful, steady. “You’ll never want for anything,” her friends murmured. Emily nodded, ignoring the doubt gnawing at her. Tomorrow, she’d wear the white dress hanging in her closet—beautiful, terrifying. Tonight was champagne and laughter. Tomorrow, vows.
Then—the knock.
** \*\***
“Good evening,” the woman repeated. She looked like a retired schoolmarm: grey hair in a tight bun, a sensible cardigan, scuffed loafers. But her sharp grey eyes seemed to see straight through Emily.
“Evening,” Emily echoed, bracing herself.
“Call me Edith. I’m William’s mother,” the woman said.
“William—?” Emily’s stomach lurched. “Is he alright? Or Oliver?” William was her neighbour, a single father raising Ollie after his wife left. Emily helped where she could—homemade scones, lending books, planting daisies by their fence. William fixed her shelves in return; Ollie dragged her blackberry-picking. She knew William had a mother, but Edith lived in the next village and rarely visited.
“They’re fine,” Edith said, raising a bony hand. “Thanks to you. I wanted to say it while I could.” She hesitated, then hardened. “Don’t marry Michael.”
Emily’s breath caught. “Excuse me?”
“I’ve seen,” Edith murmured. “Cards don’t lie. He’s not your path. Wait—your man’s name is Daniel.”
A nervous laugh escaped Emily. “Daniel? I don’t even know a—”
“Not yet.” Edith turned, shuffling toward William’s house.
For a wild moment, Emily wondered if the woman was senile—or, well, *witchy*. But the party swallowed her back before she could dwell on it.
—
The wedding was lavish. The marriage wasn’t. Michael grew distant, came home late smelling of whisky. Emily tried fighting, silence—nothing changed. Three years in, she packed up, grabbed her cat, and retreated to Gran’s cottage.
Wild thyme still scented the air. Over her door hung a bundle of lavender—”keeps bad luck away,” William said, smiling. His house was lively now, full of his new wife’s laughter and little Ollie’s footsteps. Emily waved, then stepped inside.
That night, sipping tea, she remembered Edith’s warning. Ridiculous—yet… Her phone buzzed. A message:
*Found you! Took ages—you changed your name.*
*Daniel Harris.*
Her breath hitched. Childhood summers flooded back: digging gardens, bike lessons, him shooing off the vicar’s grumpy terrier. He’d joined the army, stayed in service. His gran’s house stood empty for years.
*Hi,* she typed. They talked till dawn, reminiscing. He’d left the army, was coming home to fix up the old place. No family, just plans. She told him about Michael, about coming back.
Edith’s prophecy unfurled. Daniel became Emily’s husband. This time, walking down the aisle, she knew—this was happiness, simple as wild thyme and morning light.
