The paper cranes sailed across the sky…
Emily woke up and stretched lazily, then frowned, trying to remember what day it was. She turned her head to check the time, but her gaze landed instead on the cloud of white silk spilling from her wardrobe door—her wedding dress, hung there to avoid creases. The weight of the memory hit her like a wave, stealing her breath.
When she’d tried it on in the boutique, for just a second, she’d thought she was doing the right thing. James was gone. But Philip was here—alive, attentive, successful, handsome. Nothing could change now. In a few hours, she’d slip into this dress and ride to the registry office in a sleek bridal car.
A shudder ran through her. She turned away from the dress—the symbol of her betrayal.
Yesterday, she’d said as much to her mum. Pale and worn from chemotherapy, her mum had stared at her with hollow eyes.
“I get it, love. But James isn’t coming back.”
“Missing doesn’t mean dead,” Emily snapped. “He could be a prisoner—they exchange them sometimes.”
“Em, sweetheart, even if he comes back unharmed physically, what about his mind? You’ve seen the news. He won’t be the same. You’re only twenty-four. Life’s just starting. And you weren’t even together that long.”
“Mum, I promised I’d wait. If I marry Philip, I’m betraying him. What if he *does* come back? 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 into a hug.
Emily rested her head on her mum’s shoulder, listening to her labored breaths, lungs rustling like crumpled paper.
*Mum’s right. Philip’s done so much—got her into the best clinic in London, paid for treatment. He literally pulled her from death’s door. She’s still on chemo, but there’s hope. What if she relapses? We’ve got no money left—he’s our only lifeline. I can’t say no… She wants grandkids… I’m being selfish.*
Emily wiped her tears.
“It’ll be fine, Mum. Don’t worry.”
Her mum sighed, sneaking glances at her, secretly crossing herself when she thought Emily wasn’t looking.
“Don’t be daft. A catch like Philip? You’d be mad to let him go,” her best friend Mia had scolded, envy undisguised.
“Then *you* take him. You’re prettier anyway.”
Mia shook her head, tapping her temple. “I owe him, don’t you get it?” Emily said hotly. “I’ll always owe him. It’s like voluntary imprisonment. He can do whatever he wants, and I can’t say a word. Because I *owe* him.”
“Don’t be thick. Stick it out a bit, divorce him later. Easy,” Mia said breezily.
Those words sealed it. But as the wedding neared, Emily’s heart grew heavier. *Like he’d ever let me go. Not after the fortune he’s sunk into us.* She swallowed bitterness. *No escape. Mum can’t be left—it’d kill her. She’s finally gaining weight, eating properly. A bloody trap. One word—just one—that he’s alive, and I’d call it off…*
Philip said he loved her. He hadn’t pushed for intimacy, though she’d barely dodged his impatience a few times. The Savoy was booked, VIP guests invited—even the Deputy Mayor. She couldn’t embarrass him. He’d done nothing but help her mum…
Her mum peeked in.
“Still in bed? Hair and makeup are coming in ten. Up you get—breakfast’s on the table.”
Emily bolted up and into the shower. The question—*what do I do?*—hung in the air, unanswered.
She washed quickly, then sat at the table with damp hair. To please her mum, she sipped coffee and nibbled toast. It stuck in her throat.
“Can’t, Mum. I feel sick.” She pushed the cup away.
“Same on my wedding day. Drank champagne later and nearly made a scene.” Her mum laughed, then winced.
“What?”
“Scars pulling.”
The doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it,” her mum said, heading to the hall as Emily’s heart hammered like a caged bird.
The bustle of hair and makeup began. Emily didn’t care how she looked—until she saw the mirror. Staring back was a Hollywood version of herself, like Emilia Clarke.
She’d insisted on no updo, nothing stiff—just natural. It paid off. Her mum clasped her hands, eyes glistening.
The stylist left. Mia helped her into the dress.
“Too early,” Emily protested.
“Not if it needs adjusting. Your mum said you’re barely eating.”
“Not you too,” Emily sighed.
The doorbell rang again.
“Is your mum getting it?” Mia asked, lacing the back.
Emily shrugged.
“Stop fidgeting!” Mia scolded before rushing to answer.
Emily listened. Scuffling. Mia’s voice: “Bad luck to see her!”
“I came early to check my bride’s perfect,” Philip insisted.
“She *is*. Not happening,” Mia blocked the door.
The silk dress slid off her shoulders. Emily fiddled with the straps. Then—silence.
She waited, lifted the hem to avoid tripping, and cracked the door open. Empty. Barefoot, she crept down the hall, fabric whispering. In the kitchen, she froze.
Mia’s back was to her, golden curls spilling over her shoulders. Philip’s hands rested on her waist, pale against her navy dress—like little wings.
*Why did I notice how nice his hands were?*
They swayed, kissing. Heat surged up Emily’s face. She stumbled back to her room, barricading the door with a chair.
She went to the window—third floor, narrow ledge. Asphalt below. The dress ripped as she wrestled free, pooling at her feet like mist. She stepped on it.
“Emily, open up! Philip’s gone,” Mia called, rattling the knob. The chair wobbled.
“One sec!” Emily rasped, yanking on jeans and a tee.
*Can’t jump. Only way out’s the door.* She tugged the chair free. Mia yanked harder.
“Stop!” Emily jerked it loose.
Mia burst in, nearly faceplanting. Emily dodged past her, barefoot down the stairs.
On the landing, she almost knocked over her mum chatting with a neighbor.
“Emily, where—?”
She didn’t stop. Momentum was everything.
Philip’s car wasn’t outside. *Where?* She spun—then saw a soldier approaching across the courtyard. She sprinted toward him, gritting against the gravel biting her feet.
Up close, she faltered. Not James.
“You’re Emily? James showed me your picture,” he said, studying her.
“James? He’s alive?” His face blurred. He caught her as she swayed.
“We served together. I got wounded—he gave me your address before I shipped home. Lost the note, but I remember.”
Behind her, shouts—Mia and her mum running. Emily grabbed his sleeve. “Run!”
In a quiet courtyard, he explained: “At the hospital, I heard James was MIA. Probably captured.” He eyed her hair. “You’re getting married?”
“Not anymore.” She told him everything.
“Shouldn’t you go back? For your mum?”
She shook her head, dislodging flowers. He tried to fix them, but she ruffled her hair free.
“Come with me, then. I was heading to you anyway. Haven’t been home yet.”
“Your mum—or wife—waiting?”
“Just Mum. Never married. I’m Alex.”
“Go home, Alex. I will too.” She stood, wincing on the gravel.
At home, her mum hugged her. “Silly girl.”
“Sorry. I’ll pay Philip back—every penny.”
“Don’t be daft.” Her mum squeezed her. “I pushed you into this. You’d have hated me.”
“The dress?”
“Oh!” Her mum brightened. “Philip came back, you’d vanished. Mia squeezed into it—hilarious! They left. Suppose he couldn’t face guests alone. Pity—he’s decent.”
Emily slid off Philip’s ring.
“Give it here. You’ll return it later.” Her mum’s palm was warm.
“Love you, Mum.”
“That soldier… any word from James?”
“He thinks he’s dead or captured.” They talked till dawn.
Meanwhile, the Savoy buzzed—Philip and Mia married in a whirlwind. He’d bought her a new dressThe paper cranes still flew in her dreams, but now they carried the quiet hope of a life with Alex, stitched together by love and the fragile promise of new beginnings.
