Chapter 4 - The Ghost in the Envelope
The chapel was so quiet you could hear a pin drop on the carpeted steps.
Pastor Reynolds cleared his throat—a dry, raspy sound that echoed off the vaulted wooden ceiling. He looked down at the envelope in his hands, then out across the congregation, before finally letting his gaze settle directly on Paige.
Paige’s triumphant smirk dissolved completely. The color drained from her face so fast she looked like she had just seen a ghost. And in a way, she had.
“Before we begin the ceremony,” Pastor Reynolds announced, his rich baritone carrying effortlessly through the sanctuary, “Clara has asked for one specific family matter to be addressed according to strict instructions left behind by a very dear, departed soul.”
Every head in the chapel snapped toward the front row.
There, sitting empty in the center of the first pew, was Mom’s chair. Draped neatly over the mahogany backrest was her favorite blue cashmere scarf—the one she wore to every family milestone, the one that smelled faintly of lavender and vanilla.
Paige took an involuntary half-step backward, her heels clicking sharply against the wooden platform. Her breath hitched.
“What is this?” Paige whispered, her voice cracking slightly as she stared at the envelope in the pastor's hand. “Clara, what is the meaning of this? Stop playing games.”
I didn’t answer her. I turned my face slightly toward Ethan, whose hand reached out and gently squeezed mine. His fingers were warm, steady, and grounding.
“Eight months ago,” Pastor Reynolds continued, reading from a small index card tucked behind the envelope, “Eleanor Vance passed away after a long and courageous battle with illness. But before she left us, she entrusted me with a sealed letter. She told me that if a very specific, highly predictable event were to ever occur at this wedding, I was to pause the ceremony, open this envelope, and read its contents aloud to the person for whom it was intended.”
The pastor’s eyes locked onto Paige.
“Paige Vance. This is for you.”
The silence in the church grew heavy, suffocating. Cousin Marcus leaned forward so fast his chair groaned. Aunt Beatrice pressed a trembling hand to her chest.
Paige looked like she was choking. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. The pristine white silk of her dress—the dress she thought was her ultimate power move—suddenly looked like a straitjacket.
“Open it,” I murmured to the pastor, my voice carrying clearly across the microphone clipped to his lapel.
May you like
Pastor Reynolds broke the wax seal with his thumb. He unfolded a heavy piece of stationery—cream-colored linen paper, written in our mother’s unmistakable, sloping cursive.
He adjusted his glasses, took a deep breath, and began to read.
