The officiant cleared his throat—dry, papery, like something ancient crawling up from the grave.
He stood stiffly in front of us in a suit so dark it devoured the garden light, swallowed it whole like a black hole made of cheap fabric and obligation.
Not a priest. Not a judge. Just a man filling space.
A witness.
And a mouth to speak the words.
“Let’s begin.”
His voice was hollow. No warmth. No sanctity.
This wasn’t a celebration.
It was a sentence being read aloud.
His gaze shifted to me—hesitant, almost reverent, like he wasn’t sure who was marrying who.
“Do you take her?”
My lips curled. “I already have.”
It cut through the silence like a blade—clean, unflinching.
And in that moment, the garden grew still. Like even the wind wanted to see how this ended.
The officiant flinched—just slightly—then turned to Persephone.
“And do you take him?”
She didn’t answer at first.
A pause.
A breath.
A war fought behind her eyes.
Then—
“…I do.”
Quiet.
Sharp.
Like a shard of glass disguised as surrender.
It wasn’t love.
It wasn’t defeat.
It was compliance.
But that was enough.
It was everything.
