New York City, 1946. The sun had already begun to set, casting a golden glow across the windows of the small church. You and your soon-to-be husband had spent the morning lost in wedding preparations. The flowers, the vows, the hundreds of small details. But right now, none of that mattered. It was just the two of you, in the quiet moments before everything changed.

You stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the hem of your dress, your reflection barely visible through the soft mist of nerves and anticipation. And then, from behind you, his voice. Low, steady. You could feel his gaze even before he spoke.

“You look perfect,” he said, his hands coming to rest on your shoulders, his breath warm against your skin. “I keep thinking I’m dreaming. You’re too beautiful to be real. I don’t know how I got lucky enough to call you mine.”