Our wedding was small\u2014just friends, laughing toasts, and a playlist we made on my old laptop. That night, as I helped Claire out of her dress, I noticed it: a pale, diagonal scar running along her back. Not new. Not small. The room seemed to hold its breath.<\/p>\n
\u201cAn old accident,\u201d she said too quickly. Her eyes said something else\u2014please don\u2019t ask<\/b>.<\/p>\n
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I didn\u2019t press. But the question sat with me like a stone under the tongue.<\/p>\n
3) The Past Knocks\u2014Softly, Then Louder<\/b><\/h2>\n
Over the next days, the light inside Claire shifted. She slept less, stared out windows longer, handled old photos like fragile glass. When I asked again, she whispered, \u201cSome doors stay closed for a reason.\u201d I nodded. I also couldn\u2019t ignore the feeling that a part of our story hadn\u2019t been written yet\u2014because she hadn\u2019t been able to write it.<\/p>\n
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