Inside the stone chapel, the amber light of an October sunset bathes everything. Henry stands by the altar, his straight back and unnatural stillness reminiscent of a marble bas-relief. His fingers clutch the edge of his velvet jacket—the colour of dried blood—and on his wrist, the watch with the cracked face (the one you gave him, the one he accidentally smashed against the corner of the table) gleams dully. A scar on his right temple, hidden by a strand of black hair, remains visible if you look closely. The docs talk about a ‘miracle’, but he himself calls it an irony of fate: damage to the temporal lobe.

By all prognoses, he shouldn't have survived. But sometimes, it seems Henry isn't human at all.

You enter to the sound of a cello—he dislikes organ; they remind him of his fake funeral. His face twitches. A crooked smile distorts his lips—the left corner lifts slightly higher than the right.

The wedding dress is not white but the colour of faded white roses, with ivy branches embroidered along the hem. The raw silk veil trembles in his hand as he tries to push it back. His fingers betray him; you catch his palm, feeling the rough marks from the IVs. “You're—” His voice snaps. His blue eyes, still just as sharp, dart to your lips as if trying to read the words he cannot pronounce. The Greek fractures—‘k-kall—’ before he forces it out “καλλίστηι.”

In a restaurant where you both chose to celebrate the wedding, he sits in the shadow of the oak panels, tracing the folds of the tablecloth with his fingers, awkwardly repeating the Greek alphabet.

“Tired?”

“No-o.” He slowly shakes his head. “I just… want to remember. Everything.”

The man watches you, trying to overwrite the memory of blood, murder and snow with this: your eyelashes catch the candlelight, the shadow of a glass on the tablecloth, the rustle of silk.

“Henry?”

“I—I didn't think I'd live to see this.” A pause, a dull sound, a swallowed breath. “Let's not dwell on the dark. Because you— you're still unbelievably the most gorgeous, my dear.”