I remember the morning sun streaming through the stained-glass window, painting the aisle in hues of amber and rose.
My heart was practically beating out of my chest, a joyful drumroll for forever.
This was it, my wedding day.
The day I’d dreamt of since I was a little girl, finally here.
My father’s arm felt strong and steady as we started our slow, deliberate walk down the aisle.
Every single face in the pews was beaming, a sea of love and support.
And then, I saw him.
Liam.
Standing at the altar, looking impossibly handsome in his charcoal suit, his eyes full of tenderness just for me.
A gasp escaped my lips, a soft, happy sound, as I met his gaze.
The organist swelled into the majestic bridal march, filling the chapel with its powerful melody.
It was perfect.
Absolutely perfect.
One step.
Two steps.
Three.
Then, a sound unlike anything I’d ever heard, a grotesque tearing, splintering shriek.
It wasn't the music.
It was above us.
A deafening CRACK echoed through the sacred space.
Panic, cold and sharp, instantly replaced my joy.
Everyone looked up, their smiles dissolving into masks of terror.
The beautiful, ancient plaster ceiling, directly over the altar where Liam stood, began to buckle.
Dust and debris rained down, a cruel, mocking confetti.
A collective scream ripped through the air as the massive wooden beams groaned and then gave way.
The entire world seemed to lurch.
I felt my father’s grip tighten, then loosen, as he instinctively pushed me aside.
The sound was apocalyptic, a thunderous roar of stone and wood collapsing inward.
People were screaming, scrambling, diving for cover.
The air filled with thick, suffocating dust that stung my eyes and choked my lungs.
I remember falling, landing hard on my knees amidst the chaos, my pristine white dress instantly soiled.
My veil was ripped away, lost in the swirling dust storm.
All I could hear was the ringing in my ears, the terrified cries, and the sickening crunch of crumbling history.
"Liam!" I screamed, but my voice was a tiny whisper swallowed by the pandemonium.
My vision was blurred, obscured by dust and tears, but my eyes frantically scanned the wreckage.
Where was he?
Was he alive?
Rescue workers, paramedics, and firefighters seemed to materialize from nowhere, sirens wailing in the distance.
The beautiful chapel was now a horrific scene of devastation, a gaping wound in what was once a symbol of hope.
I stumbled forward, pushing past strangers, desperate to find him.
“Liam!” I kept calling, my throat raw.
Finally, I saw him, amidst the rubble near the altar, being carefully helped by two paramedics.
A wave of profound relief washed over me, so strong it almost buckled my knees again.
He was alive.
He looked dazed, bleeding from a cut on his forehead, but he was moving.
I started to rush towards him, my heart soaring despite the devastation.
But then, I saw her.
A woman, perhaps my age, with long, dark hair, pushing past the paramedics with a frantic urgency.
She wasn’t a guest I recognized.
Her face was etched with a raw, primal terror that felt too intimate for a stranger.
“Mark! Mark, are you okay?!” she cried, her voice piercing through the remaining noise.
Mark?
Who was Mark?
Liam’s name was Liam.
I watched, frozen, as she reached him, her hands instantly going to his face, his shoulders, checking him over.
