The house was silent that night.
The kind of silence that stretched too long and settled deep into the walls, it was heavy and unmoving. Ava sat by her desk, her bare feet resting against the cold floor, a single lamp casting a pool of golden light across the stack of invitations laid before her.
Ten perfect ivory cards.
Ten empty spaces meant for names that didn't exist.
She stared at them for a long time, her pen motionless in her hand. The ink had already dried on the tip, but she couldn't bring herself to write anything.
Each blank line felt like a reminder of everything she'd lost, of everyone who was gone. She traced her fingertip over the embossed letters The Wedding of Damian Cross and Ava Sinclair and felt something twist painfully inside her chest.
It was all real now. Every part of it.
