They had chosen the hall for its quiet—no gilded chandeliers, no staged backdrops, just a long room with tall windows and a wooden floor that took the sound of footsteps and made it honest. Chairs were set in a loose semicircle, candles boxed and waiting, a small table for the readers. Isadora stood at the edge of the aisle, hands folded, watching friends settle into seats. She had practiced the walk until it felt like a promise; she had written her vows until the words were the only thing she trusted to be true.
Kane moved through the guests with the kind of calm that made logistics feel like comfort. He checked the sound, adjusted a mic, smoothed a crease in a napkin. People laughed in small, nervous bursts; someone passed around a tray of tea. The rehearsal was intimate in the way Isadora wanted—familiar faces, quiet jokes, the kind of warmth that didn't need an audience.
