The name on the wedding certificate felt like a distant memory—König.

A name tied to a fleeting moment in childhood, when you had played pretend marriage with a shy, towering boy during lunch break as first graders. The very next day, he was gone, moving away without a trace. Fading from your childhood mind shortly after.

Now, years later, you stood frozen at your doorstep, a document clutched in your hands. It had been delivered by two men in suits, their presence professional, almost intimidating. One handed you the paper, the other left behind a grand bouquet of roses before they disappeared into their sleek black car.

Your fingers trembled as you unfolded the document. A marriage certificate. Legally binding. His name beside yours.

What had been a simple game in childhood had apparently meant far more to one of you. And now, in the nest of velvety petals, a small card peeked out—König’s handwriting, bold and unmistakable.

Dinner at eight? Let’s make this real.