Shadows on the Eve of Happiness
In a quiet village nestled at the foot of rolling hills, where morning mist clung to the fields, Eleanor and her friends were noisily celebrating her hen night. Tomorrow, she would become the wife of her fiancé, William. The festivities were in full swing—clinking glasses, laughter, and music filled the air. Suddenly, a knock echoed at the door. Eleanor, smoothing her dress, went to answer.
“Good evening,” said an elderly woman in a soft, apologetic tone. Her wrinkled face carried a faint trace of familiarity.
“Good evening,” Eleanor replied, an uneasy silence settling between them. She waited for the stranger to speak.
“I’ve come to warn you—don’t marry William,” the woman blurted out, her eyes burning into Eleanor like embers.
“What? Why?” Eleanor stared, bewildered, unsure what to make of this encounter.
—
The night before the wedding, Eleanor’s friends had thrown her a hen do, as tradition demanded. For years, she had lived in a modest cottage on the outskirts of the village, inherited from her grandmother. The house was small but cozy, with wooden floors and windows framed by ancient oaks. Though the commute to work took an hour, Eleanor never complained. Here, the air smelled of rosemary, ripe apples, and morning dew. Leaves rustled in the breeze, crickets sang at dusk, and this simple life filled her soul with a peace she rarely found in the rush of the city.
Her friends had suggested celebrating at a trendy club or restaurant, but Eleanor insisted on staying home. This wasn’t just a farewell to singlehood—it was a farewell to her sanctuary, her quiet refuge.
William, her fiancé, had flatly refused to live in the countryside. “Maybe when we’re retired,” he’d say, “but right now, I’m not wasting half my day on a commute. What’s so great about the middle of nowhere? It’s bloody dull!”
Eleanor quietly accepted. The cottage would remain; she’d visit on weekends. But they often clashed—over money, holidays, even how to raise future children. William was always the first to make up, arriving with flowers, taking her to cafés, declaring his love. His emotions were fiery, unpredictable, like a summer storm.
Did Eleanor love him? She pushed the thought away. When she did dwell on it, she felt not excitement but emptiness—a cold, yawning void that swallowed everything dear to her: her well-worn books, tea in her favourite daisy-patterned mug, even her cat purring in her lap. The thought chilled her. Of course, it was just imagination—yet it felt so real, prickling her skin with goosebumps.
Eleanor didn’t love William. But she was marrying him anyway. He was ten years older, successful, self-assured. “You’ll always be taken care of with him,” her friends whispered. Eleanor nodded, hiding her doubts. Now, the wedding day loomed. Her white dress hung in the wardrobe, beautiful and daunting. Tonight—champagne, strawberries, laughter. Tomorrow—vows at the altar.
Amid the cheerful clamour, Eleanor barely heard the knock at the door. At first, she thought she’d imagined it, but it came again. No more guests were expected. She hurried to answer.
“Good evening,” the elderly woman said. She looked like a retired schoolteacher—grey hair pinned neatly, a dark cardigan over a blouse, a long skirt, worn shoes. But her eyes—sharp, grey—seemed to see straight through Eleanor.
“Good evening,” Eleanor replied, waiting.
“Call me Edith Harper. I’m Thomas Whitmore’s mother,” she said.
“Is Thomas all right? Or James?” Eleanor asked, worried. Thomas was her neighbour, and James was his son. His wife had left years ago, leaving him with debts and a child. Thomas had persevered, working hard, raising James with firm kindness. Eleanor helped where she could—baking pies, lending books from the library, planting daisies and lavender under their windows. Thomas reciprocated—fixing her fence, putting up shelves. James often invited her on walks, and they’d pick blackberries, which she’d turn into jam, sharing half with them. Eleanor knew Thomas had a mother, but she lived in the next village and rarely visited.
“No, they’re fine,” Edith assured her, raising thin hands. “Thanks to you, Eleanor. I know how you’ve helped them. I came to see my son today, thought I’d stop by to thank you.”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Eleanor said, flustered. “Just being neighbourly…”
“That’s why I’m grateful,” Edith cut in, a sudden steel in her voice. “Forgive an old woman, Eleanor, but I see the truth. Don’t marry William.” Her eyes darkened, fixing on Eleanor.
“Excuse me? Why?” Eleanor stiffened. “How do you even know about William? Why are you saying this?” A thought struck her. “Oh—I don’t fancy your Thomas! We’re just friends!” She let out a nervous laugh.
“I know that,” Edith said calmly. “And I know you’re making a mistake. William isn’t your fate. You won’t be happy with him. Wait—your real match is coming. His name is Daniel.”
Eleanor shifted uncomfortably, staring into the gathering dusk to avoid that piercing gaze. Behind her, friends laughed, someone sang off-key, but here, on the doorstep, time seemed frozen.
“I don’t understand,” Eleanor murmured.
“I read the cards,” Edith said softly. “They don’t lie. Don’t walk down that aisle tomorrow. This is my thanks to you.” She turned and walked slowly towards the neighbouring house.
“Not a teacher—a proper witch,” Eleanor thought. She watched her go, shook her head, and returned to her friends.
The wedding was lavish. Guests celebrated, but happiness didn’t follow. Soon, William grew irritable, staying late at work, returning with alcohol on his breath. Eleanor pleaded, fought, then resigned herself—nothing changed. He disappeared more often. Three years later, exhausted, she packed her things, took her cat, and returned to her grandmother’s cottage. It welcomed her with the scent of herbs and stillness.
Bundles of rosemary hung above the door. “Keeps away trouble,” Thomas had explained, smiling. His house now rang with the laughter of his new wife and their little girl. Eleanor waved to them and stepped inside.
That evening, sipping tea, she remembered her hen night and Edith’s words. She’d dismissed them then—but now, she wondered. Her phone buzzed—a social media notification. She rarely checked her profile.
“Hey, found you! Took me ages—you changed your name,” Daniel Crawford had written.
Eleanor opened his profile and froze. They’d grown up together, spending summers with their grandparents. As children, they’d dug in the garden, caught fish, made daisy chains. Daniel had defended her from the neighbour’s dog; she’d taught him to ride a bike. Then life pulled them apart—he’d joined the army and stayed. His grandmother’s house stood empty, overgrown with weeds.
“Hi,” she replied. They talked until dawn, reminiscing, laughing over old misadventures. Daniel had left the service and was coming back, dreaming of restoring his grandmother’s home. He had no family. Eleanor shared her story—her marriage, her return.
Edith’s prophecy came true. Daniel became Eleanor’s husband. This time, she married for love, certain that ahead lay only happiness—sweet as fresh-cut grass and morning dew.
