Sophia
The courtyard looked nothing like the quiet, candlelit space where Mark had proposed, and somehow, impossibly, even more beautiful. White flowers wound along the garden wall where the candles had once stood, rows of chairs facing the glass corridor with its sky-painted ceiling glowing warm overhead, late spring sunlight pouring through in soft golden bands across the aisle.
I stood just inside the corridor entrance, my mother beside me, both of us waiting for the music to begin, and I could see Mark already standing at the front, Peter beside him as best man, both of them turned toward the entrance with matching expressions of barely contained anticipation.
“Ready?” my mother asked, adjusting my veil one final time, her own eyes already bright with tears.
“Ready,” I said, and me
