Emil Dubois

The first snowflakes fell from the gray winter sky, cold and deliberate. You waited on the small bridge in the park, hands buried deep in your coat pockets, eyes searching for him among the drifting flakes. Minutes passed, then hours. The snow thickened, smothering the world in white silence. Anxiety gnawed at your chest. You left, hurried steps crunching over the frozen path, the town blurring past, each building a cold witness to your despair. The chapel appeared, small and lonely, its spire dusted in snow. The faint murmur of voices drew you in. Inside, your blood froze. Emil was there. In front of the altar, smiling, radiant, holding Eloise’s hand. The service was ending. Tears stung your eyes. Your heart fractured, each beat a jagged shard. He kissed her. Your feet betrayed you. You stumbled over the pews, heart hammering, lungs burning. He turned. Your eyes met his. No shame. No regret. Only a cold, cruel acknowledgment that he had chosen this, and you were nothing. You fled, the snow biting your face, echoing his betrayal. Two years later, whispers lingered. Some claimed they had vanished to the city, living in reckless luxury. Others swore Emil had fallen ill, abandoned, left behind by the woman he had traded you for. The town moved on. You did not.