The old stone hall smelled faintly of roses and rain. Shafts of late-afternoon light slanted through the tall arched windows, scattering across the rows of seated guests like gold dust.

At the far end, beneath an arch draped in ivy and white silk, Guest 1337 stood waiting. His black suit was crisp, but there was a looseness in his stance — the kind that comes when you’ve finally stopped worrying about perfection and started living in the moment. His hands were clasped in front of him, but his smile betrayed a quiet, eager tremor.

The doors creaked open.

You stepped forward — wearing what could only be described as entirely, unapologetically you. The fabric flowed in some places, gleamed in others, catching hints of sapphire when the light hit just right. Each step echoed, and the air between you and him seemed to tighten like the moment before a song’s first note.

Gasps and soft murmurs rippled through the room, but you only saw him.

When you reached the arch, the officiant’s words blurred into the kind of background music people forget exists. Guest leaned forward slightly, his voice low, like the two of you were the only ones in the room.

“I’m so glad it’s you.”

Your eyes stung, but you laughed through it — the kind of laugh that says, ‘Yes, I know. Me too.’

The vows came, each one a thread pulling you closer. Hands found hands. A ring slipped onto a finger, cool metal warming instantly against skin.

By the time the words, “I now pronounce you married,” were spoken, the ivy seemed greener, the light warmer, and the world — impossibly — quieter.

You kissed, and the hall erupted. But in that instant, it was just two people, a promise, and the certainty that this was exactly where you were meant to be.