The police said my husband had died in a boating accident. No body was ever found. Three years later, I remarried. During the wedding, when the officiant asked if anyone objected, a familiar voice rang out from the back of the hall: “I do.” I turned around—and saw the man I had buried in my memories, standing there and smiling.

The police said my husband had died in a boating accident. No body was ever found. Three years later, I remarried. During the wedding, when the officiant asked if anyone objected, a familiar voice rang out from the back of the hall: “I do.” I turned around—and saw the man I had buried in my memories, standing there and smiling.

The police came to my door on a gray October morning, their faces already carrying the apology before their mouths opened. They told me my husband, Daniel Harper, had likely died in a boating accident off the coast of Maine. His boat was found overturned. His wallet, his phone, even his jacket were recovered. His body was not.

They said the ocean sometimes keeps what it takes.
For months, I lived in suspension between hope and grief. I waited for a call that never came. I scanned every unidentified body report. I slept with my phone on my chest like a talisman. After a year, the waiting became heavier than mourning. After two, it felt cruel. On the third anniversary of Daniel’s disappearance, I let myself say the word widow out loud.

I met Michael Reynolds not long after. He was gentle, steady, and patient with the parts of me that still flinched at sudden knocks on the door. He never asked me to forget Daniel. He only asked me to live. And eventually, I did.

Three years after the sea erased my husband, I stood in a small wedding hall, white flowers lining the aisle, my mother squeezing my trembling hands. The officiant smiled and asked the ritual question, his voice echoing softly off the wooden beams.

“Is there anyone here who objects to this union?”

For a heartbeat, the room held its breath.

Then a voice came from the back of the hall. Calm. Familiar. Impossible.

“I do.”

The word cut through me like cold water. My body reacted before my mind could. I turned slowly, my pulse roaring in my ears, my bouquet slipping from my fingers.

He stood there, taller than I remembered, leaner, with a faint scar cutting through his left eyebrow. But the smile was unmistakable. The same crooked smile I had kissed goodbye a thousand times.

Daniel Harper.

The man I had buried in my memories.

Alive.

And smiling at me as if no time had passed at all.

The room dissolved into chaos. Guests whispered, chairs scraped against the floor, my mother gasped my name. Michael stepped forward instinctively, placing himself slightly in front of me, confusion and protectiveness written across his face.

The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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