The paper cranes sailed across the sky…
Emily woke and stretched languidly, then paused to remember what day it was. She turned her head to check the time, but her gaze caught instead on the white wedding dress draped over the wardrobe door—too long to fit inside, hung there to keep it from wrinkling. Memories crashed over her like a wave, stealing her breath.
When she’d tried it on in the shop, for a fleeting moment, it had felt right. Edward was gone. Philip was here—alive, attentive, successful, handsome. There was no turning back. In a few hours, she would wear that dress and ride in a bridal car to the registry office.
A shudder ran through her. She turned away from the dress, the symbol of her betrayal.
Yesterday, she had said as much to her mother. Pale, worn thin by chemotherapy and surgeries, her mother had stared at her with hollow eyes.
“I understand, love. But Edward isn’t coming back.”
“Missing doesn’t mean dead,” Emily snapped. “He could be a prisoner—they exchange prisoners.”
“Emmy, even if he comes back in one piece, what state will he be in? Have you seen the news? If his body’s whole, his mind won’t be. Why put yourself through that? You’re only twenty-four. Life’s just beginning. And you weren’t even together long.”
“Mum, I promised I’d wait for him. Marrying Philip is betrayal. What if he comes back? How could I ever look him in the eye?” Emily’s voice broke, tears choking her.
“Hush, don’t shout. He promised to come back too. War makes promises easy to give, hard to keep. If he were alive, wouldn’t he have sent word?” Her mother pulled her close.
Emily rested her head on her mother’s shoulder, listening to the rasp of her laboured breath, like crumpling paper in her lungs.
*Mum’s right. Philip’s done so much for us. Got her into the best clinic in London, paid for her treatment. Pulled her back from death’s door, literally. She’s still on chemo. There’s hope. But if she relapses? We’ve no money—Philip’s our only lifeline. I can’t refuse… She wants grandchildren… I’m selfish, thinking only of myself…*
Emily wiped her tears.
“It’ll be fine, Mum. Don’t worry.”
Her mother sighed, stealing glances at Emily, secretly crossing her when she thought she wasn’t looking.
“Don’t be daft. A man like Philip? Hold on tight with both hands,” scolded her friend Maisie, her envy poorly hidden.
“Then *you* hold on. You’re prettier than me.” Maisie shook her head, twirling a finger at her temple.
“I owe him, don’t you see?” Emily’s voice was feverish. “I’ll always owe him. It’s like a voluntary prison. He can do what he likes, and I won’t dare peep. Because I *owe* him.” She bit out each word. “This isn’t living. It’s a cage.”
“Silly girl. Live with him a while, see how it goes. Divorce if you must. Simple,” Maisie said breezily.
Those words sealed it. But as the wedding drew nearer, Emily’s heart grew heavier. *Oh, he’ll let me go, sure. After all the money he’s poured into us.* The thought was leaden. *And where would I run? I can’t leave Mum. It’d kill her. She’s only just eating again. It’s a trap. Just one word—’alive’—and I’d call it off…*
Philip said he loved her, never pushed for more, though more than once she’d barely slipped free of his urgency. The posh restaurant was booked, the guest list full of dignitaries. The deputy mayor would be there. She couldn’t humiliate Philip—abandon him at the altar. He’d done nothing wrong. He’d saved her mother…
Her mother peeked into the room.
“Still in bed? The hairstylist’s coming in ten. Up you get—breakfast is out.”
Emily leapt up and headed for the shower. The question *what do I do?* hung unanswered, a draft of uncertainty.
She washed quickly, hair still damp as she sat to eat. To spare her mother’s feelings, she sipped coffee and nibbled toast. It lodged in her throat.
“Can’t, Mum. I feel sick.” She pushed the cup away.
“I couldn’t eat before marrying your father either. Nerves. Then I drank champagne and worried I’d disgrace myself.” Her mother laughed, then winced.
“What?” Emily tensed.
“Stitches pulled.”
The doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it,” her mother said, heading for the hall. Emily’s heart hammered like a trapped bird.
The whirlwind of hair and makeup began. Emily didn’t care how she looked—until she saw herself in the mirror and gasped. A Hollywood star, Keira Knightley, stared back.
She’d insisted on no updos, no towers of curls—just natural beauty. She’d chosen well. Her mother pressed hands to her chest, eyes glistening.
The stylist left; Maisie helped her into the dress.
“Too early,” Emily protested.
“Not at all. What if it needs altering?” Maisie said. “Your mum says you’re not eating.”
“Not you too,” Emily sighed.
The doorbell rang again.
“Should your mum get it?” Maisie asked, lacing the back.
Emily shrugged.
“Don’t move!” Maisie snapped, then dashed to answer, leaving Emily’s back exposed.
The bell repeated. Maisie’s voice carried:
“No! Bad luck.”
“I came early to check on my bride,” Philip’s voice insisted. “I’m marrying her—I want her perfect.”
“She’s *flawless*. You’ll wait.”
The silk and chiffon dress slithered on her shoulders. Emily adjusted the straps. Then—silence.
Waiting, she lifted the hem to avoid tripping and cracked the door. The hall was empty. Barefoot, she crept out. The dress whispered against the floor.
She peeked into the kitchen—and froze.
Maisie’s back was to her, golden curls spilling over her shoulders. Philip’s hands, pale against her navy dress, cradled her like wings.
*Why did I think his hands were beautiful?*
They swayed, kissing. Heat flooded Emily’s face. She stumbled back, blocking the bedroom door with a chair.
She went to the window. Third floor. Too narrow to climb down. Asphalt waited below.
She wrestled free of the dress, seams protesting. The frothy cloud pooled at her feet. No matter—she stepped on it, crushing the chiffon.
“Emily, open up! Philip’s gone,” Maisie called. The chair wobbled as she rattled the knob.
“One minute!” Emily rasped, yanking on jeans and a t-shirt.
*Jumping’s suicide. The door, then.* She jerked the chair free. Maisie shoved—Emily pulled harder, flinging the door wide.
Maisie stumbled in, nearly hitting the sill. She was shouting, but Emily was already sprinting down the stairs.
On the second-floor landing, she nearly collided with her mother chatting to a neighbour.
“Emily! Where—?”
If she stopped, her courage would fail. She kept running.
Philip’s car wasn’t outside. *Where?* She scanned the courtyard—and saw a soldier approaching. She dashed toward him. Gravel bit her bare feet. Then—
“You’re Emily? Edward showed me your photo,” the soldier said, studying her.
“Edward? He’s alive?” The man blurred before her. He caught her as she swayed.
“We served together. I was wounded—he gave me your address before I was evacuated. Lost the note, but I remember it.”
“Where is he?” She couldn’t look away.
Shouts behind her. Emily spun—saw Maisie and her mother running—grabbed the soldier’s sleeve and yanked him away, crying, *”Run!”*
Later, in a quiet courtyard, he told her Edward was missing, likely captured.
“That hairstyle… You’re getting married?” Disapproval tinged his voice.
“Not anymore.” She explained.
“Maybe go back? For your mum?”
Emily shook her head, dislodging flowers from her hair. He tried to replace them; she tousled it wildly.
“Come with me, then. I was heading to you—haven’t even been home.”
“Your mum… a wife?”
“Just Mum. I’m Alex.”
“Go home, Alex. Your mum’s waiting. So’s mine.” She stood.
She walked away, stepping gingerly on her sore feet.
At home, her mother met her.
“Love, what were you thinking?”
“Sorry. I couldn’t. I’ll repay Philip—every penny.”Years later, as she rocked her son Edward to sleep, she thought of the paper cranes still flying somewhere beyond the clouds, carrying all the love and loss that had led her here.
