See you in the Aisle!

Prologue

March 25, 2011

"It's you!" I gasped, jolting awake from the dream that felt too real to shake, the echo of those words still lingering in the quiet darkness of my room.

I woke with a start, heart pounding in my chest, the remnants of a vivid dream still clinging to the edges of my consciousness like wisps of smoke. My room was bathed in the soft, golden light of early morning, the curtains swaying gently in the breeze. I blinked several times, trying to ground myself in reality, but the dream felt too real, too intense, leaving me disoriented and slightly dazed.

In the dream, I was dressed in a stunning white gown, the kind that little girls imagine wearing on their wedding day. The fabric was heavy, luxurious, and it flowed around me like a river of silk. I could feel every intricate detail—the delicate lace that adorned the bodice, the coolness of the stone floor beneath my feet, the slight tug of the veil as it brushed against my bare shoulders.

The setting was a quaint neighborhood church, the kind you might stumble upon while wandering through an old town, its stone walls weathered by time. The air inside was thick with the scent of fresh flowers and the warmth of candlelight, casting flickering shadows on the faces of family and friends who had gathered to witness my union with a man I didn't know.

As I stood at the entrance of the church, a wave of unease washed over me. My heart raced, not with the excitement that typically accompanies such a moment, but with a deep, unsettling confusion. I could see my reflection in a nearby mirror—my eyes wide with fear, my lips trembling as I tried to steady my breathing.

"Mom, I can't marry someone I've never met. This isn't right," I had said, my voice barely more than a whisper, trembling with the weight of my uncertainty. My mother stood beside me, her expression calm, almost serene, as if she had expected this.

With a gentle smile, she handed me a stack of papers. "Read these, dear. You'll understand," she said, her tone soothing, but her words cryptic.

I took the papers with trembling hands, but as I tried to focus on the words, they seemed to blur and shift on the page, refusing to make sense. I shook my head, frustration bubbling up inside me. Nothing about this situation felt right—the unfamiliar church, the faceless groom waiting at the altar, the wedding entourage dressed in royal blue, their faces obscured as if shrouded in mist.

My gaze was drawn to the large man standing beside me, his expression unreadable as he prepared to escort me down the aisle. His presence was comforting, yet intimidating, as if he was a guardian of some secret I wasn't yet privy to. But it was the man waiting at the altar who truly caught my attention. He was gentle-looking, with kind eyes framed by wire-rimmed glasses, his expression soft as he watched me approach.

He smiled, a warm and genuine smile that eased some of my anxiety, and in his hands, he held a bouquet of paper flowers—delicate, intricately folded creations that seemed almost too fragile to be real. As I drew closer, he extended a hand, offering me a piece of gum with a playful wink, as if to lighten the gravity of the moment.

It was then that I realized I didn't even know his name. Panic surged through me as I opened my mouth to ask, but before the words could escape, I was jolted awake by the sound of my father's voice calling me to breakfast. I gasped, sitting up in bed, the dream still clinging to me like a second skin. I tried to hold on to the details, to capture the essence of the man at the altar, but the memory of his name slipped through my fingers like water, leaving only the initials M.P.

Frustrated and desperate not to lose the memory, I grabbed my diary from the nightstand and began to scribble down every detail I could remember—the weight of the gown, the coolness of the stone floor, the scent of flowers, the man with the paper flowers and the gum. I wrote feverishly, hoping that by committing it to paper, the dream would make sense later, that somehow the pieces would come together to form a clear picture.

But as the day wore on, the dream continued to haunt me, lingering in the back of my mind like a shadow. I found myself distracted, unable to focus on the mundane tasks of daily life. The dream felt significant, as if it was trying to tell me something, but I couldn't quite grasp what it was.

That night, and every night after, I prayed fervently to meet the mysterious man from my dream, to experience that connection again. I longed for the dream to return, to offer me more clues, more answers. But it never did. The dream remained a singular, haunting memory, growing fainter with each passing day, until it was little more than a distant echo in the corners of my mind.

Yet, deep down, I held on to a sliver of hope, a quiet belief that perhaps, one day, I would find him—the man with the paper flowers, the one who held the key to the strange and beautiful world of my dream.

And so, I waited.