Nevara
The morning should have felt solemn.
Instead it felt almost strangely bright, as though even the day had refused to dress itself in mourning.
The celebration was held in the lower royal gardens beneath old sycamores where sunlight moved through the branches in broken gold patterns across the lawn. White chairs had been arranged in long rows facing a small raised platform draped in cream linen and loose blue-and-white flowers Elena had somehow made look wild rather than arranged.
The arrangements looked alive in exactly the way I had hoped, with the flowers carrying a wildness that felt much more like Michelle than anything overly formal ever could. But before guests began arriving, I found myself drawn first to see her alone. I had not been sure I could bear it, yet avoiding tha
