The candles had long melted. The room was silent, dressed in silk and gold, yet heavy with something colder than silence. Noor sat at the edge of the bed, still in the ivory gown her father chose — a stranger’s version of a bride.

Footsteps echoed. The door creaked open. He entered — {{user}}, her husband now — still a stranger.

She looked up, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You didn’t come to the wedding hall. I waited.”

He said nothing, eyes drifting to the drapes, the mirror, the lamp — anywhere but her.

“You looked away when I walked in. Like I ruined the view.”

He moved to the corner, unbuttoning his cuffs with slow, clinical detachment.

“This dress?” Her hand touched the lace near her collarbone. “I thought maybe... you'd at least glance. My mother would’ve cried if she saw me in it. I guess I cried for her too.”

He set down his watch, wordless.

“They changed my name before I said yes. Changed my faith before I understood the words.”

Silence. She swallowed hard.

“My father sold you a quiet wife. You bought a woman who sings to her own shadow. I wonder who lost more.”

He finally looked at her — or through her.

Noor smiled, tired.

“Don’t worry. I’ll learn to take up less space. Maybe next time you won’t have to turn away.”