Chapter 256
‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.
Memories of the place where we were married started to return. The chapel, at a glance, looked similar to this one, but it had been much darker—even though it was afternoon. It must have been a cloudy, overcast day when we held our wedding.
“Do we really have to go through with the ceremony today? I’m not saying we should cancel, but can’t we at least wait a few hours until it’s over?”
Killian’s voice echoed with a mix of worry and frustration, aimed at someone out of sight. He had every right to be upset. That day, just like now, bombs and bullets were raining down from the sky.
We’d gotten married in the middle of an air raid.
It seemed there hadn’t been time to postpone it. In my memory, I was walking slowly from the entrance of the chapel toward the altar, glancing up at the tall windows. Fighter planes from both armies crisscrossed the sky like crows over a graveyard. It felt like I was walking toward my own death.
‘…Why did I feel like that?’
Part of me knew I would survive the day, but another part of me was convinced it wouldn’t matter if I didn’t. We’d rushed to get married just before I was to be sent on a dangerous mission.
But what I felt wasn’t some grand, reckless love or patriotic fervor. It was just resignation—a weary surrender.
I wasn’t a bride marrying the man she loved, or a soldier steeling herself for duty to her country. My state of mind that day was nothing like I’d imagined it would be.
And, as Killian had said, there were no guests—just the priest in his vestments standing beneath the cross, and Killian in his officer’s uniform waiting for me at the foot of the altar. Not even my father was there to walk me down the aisle; I walked alone.
As I neared the altar, I could just make out Killian reaching out a hand to me through the haze of my veil.
Boom!
Just as I reached for his hand, a deafening explosion shook the ground—part of the chapel collapsing outside. The memory abruptly snapped, jostled loose by the very real sound of bombs in the present.
“Dana, hurry!”
Killian’s urgent voice pulled me back as he grabbed me and rushed us down to the basement. The sight of my wedding ring, still precariously on his pinky finger, sent another wave of memories flooding back.
He pulls two rings from the pocket of his uniform. I see his lips brush against the smaller one before slipping it onto my left ring finger. When he sees it fits perfectly, his mouth curves into a wide smile.
He didn’t look like someone who hated that ring so much, and I found that odd.
Just as his lips parted to say something in that memory, the present-day Killian barked at me again.
“Snap out of it!”
Lost in my memories, I had almost tripped down the stairs.
“Ah!”
Apparently, he decided it was too risky—he picked me up and carried me the rest of the way down. The priest, following us, asked,
“Is your wife hurt?”
“No, she’s just frightened.”
But that wasn’t true. I wasn’t scared.
“Are you scared?”
Even on our wedding day, after we’d hidden in the crypt beneath the church, he’d held me and kept asking that same question.
“Don’t be afraid, my Philomena. I’m here. A hero never dies for nothing.”
This was the same man who, until then, would always chide me to be stronger, now suddenly comforting me.
“Dana, my wife, I love you. I’ll love you fiercely until the moment we die.”
He tossed out the words “I love you” almost carelessly, like he was giving alms to a beggar. But at least he said it first.
“You love me too, don’t you? Say it out loud—loud enough for God to hear.”
There was something off, almost calculating, about the way he said it. And the way he clung to me and whispered endearments in front of the priest hiding with us made me deeply uncomfortable.
The priest’s prayers drifted through the air, distant and faint. My memory ended there.
‘Something’s not right.’
I’d finally remembered our wedding day, but instead of happiness, I felt unsettled. There was a persistent sense that something was wrong.
A chill I’d felt since seeing him smile and kiss my ring in that memory, and especially when the voice in the memory and Killian’s voice now overlapped in my mind.
“Don’t worry, my love. I’m here. I’ll never let anything hurt you.”
“Don’t be afraid, my Philomena. I’m here. A hero never dies for nothing.”
But the voice in my memory wasn’t Killian’s. The way he spoke, even the pet name, was different.
The strangest part was the nickname itself.
“Don’t be afraid, my Philomena.”
Killian always called me “my love”, or “my little forget-me-not fairy”. Never—not once—had he ever called me “my Philomena”.
‘What is this? Why is it creepy?’
I shivered. The Killian of today pulled me tighter into his arms—a gesture that felt both familiar and strangely alien.
The embrace was comforting, but the unease in my chest only grew stronger.
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