One week before the weddings, the house stopped sleeping.
It wasn't sudden. There was no single moment where silence broke and never returned. Instead, noise layered itself slowly one phone call turning into three, one visitor into a rotation, one list into several rewritten versions of the same list.
By Monday morning, Tyler woke to voices.
Not loud ones. Purposeful ones.
"…no, that goes after the ceremony""Steven, stop arguing and just write it down""We'll need more chairs than that"
Tyler lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, listening as the house reorganized itself around an event that hadn't happened yet. Even before he got out of bed, he could feel it the subtle pressure of anticipation settling into the walls.
Downstairs, Viola had already claimed the dining table.
Papers were spread across it like territory markers. Guest lists. Timetables. Notes written in sharp, decisive strokes. She sat at the center, spine straight, glasses perched low on her nose as she scanned a page with the focus of someone who had waited years for this moment.
"Steven," she said without looking up, "you're going to the tailor again today."
Steven, half-dressed and holding a cup of tea he hadn't touched, groaned. "Again? We already went twice."
"And you still don't fit properly," Viola replied. "Marriage does not forgive wrinkles."
Richard stood near the doorway, jacket in hand, listening quietly. His schedule was already folded neatly in his pocket, memorized and accepted.
Melissa moved between kitchen and living room, carrying trays, answering questions, redirecting relatives who seemed to appear out of nowhere. She smiled through it all, but Tyler noticed how often she paused to rub her temples when she thought no one was watching.
Silas handled the calls.
His voice stayed even as he spoke to caterers, transport services, and distant relatives who suddenly remembered how to reach them. He stood near the window, phone pressed to his ear, gaze fixed somewhere outside as if anchoring himself.
Tyler hovered at the edges.
He carried small things when asked. Passed messages. Slipped out of rooms before becoming part of conversations that didn't need him. He could feel thoughts brushing past him constantly fragments, impressions, emotions sharpened by stress.
This is too much.
We're forgetting something.
Why does everything cost so much?
He filtered them out, the way he always did.
By Tuesday, Vanessa had become indispensable.
She arrived early, dressed simply, sleeves already rolled up. She didn't ask what needed to be done. she watched for ten minutes, then started doing it. Rearranging chairs. Noting mistakes in lists without pointing them out directly. Calming Steven when he grew restless.
"It'll be fine," she told him softly when his voice rose over a disagreement about seating. "We'll adjust it."
Steven exhaled, tension easing instantly. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right."
Tyler noticed how naturally people began deferring to her.
Not because she demanded it. Because she made things easier.
Pamela arrived later that day.
She stood near the doorway at first, hands clasped in front of her, scanning the room as if unsure where to place herself. When Melissa noticed her, she smiled warmly and waved her over.
"You can help me in the kitchen if you'd like."
Pamela nodded quickly. "Of course."
She followed instructions carefully, asking before moving anything, apologizing when she wasn't sure. No one criticized her. No one reassured her either. She existed in the spaces between certainty.
Tyler watched the contrast without judgment.
Vanessa moved like she already belonged. Pamela moved like she was trying not to intrude.
By Wednesday, the house felt crowded even when it wasn't.
Relatives came and went. Some stayed longer than planned. Some brought opinions instead of help. Tyler caught snippets of conversations drifting through corridors.
"…can you believe both weddings together?""…must be nice, having everything arranged…""…Ignaros Church is expensive, you know…"
He passed through the living room once and caught a passing thought from a distant aunt he barely recognized.
All this for two boys.
He didn't look back.
Steven grew more talkative as the week went on.
He laughed louder. Joked more often. Told the same story twice without noticing. His nervousness wore the shape of excitement, spilling outward and filling spaces.
Richard grew quieter.
He fulfilled every task asked of him. Ran errands. Confirmed schedules. Answered questions politely. When Steven joked, Richard smiled but Tyler noticed the smile never reached his eyes.
On Thursday night, Tyler found Richard sitting alone in the courtyard, jacket folded beside him, staring at the dark sky.
"Uncle," Tyler said.
Richard looked down, startled, then smiled. "Hey."
"You're quiet," Tyler said simply.
Richard huffed softly. "I guess I am."
They sat together in silence. Tyler didn't probe. He didn't need to. Richard's thoughts were orderly, lined up like tasks on a list.
Do what's expected. Be reliable. Don't complicate things.
By Friday, exhaustion settled in.
Viola refused to acknowledge it.
"People get tired when they hesitate," she said sharply when Melissa suggested resting. "We don't hesitate."
The final fittings were completed. The ritual items for the church were checked and rechecked. Steven paced. Pamela triple-checked her schedule. Vanessa reminded everyone to eat.
Tyler ate when told.
That night, the house finally quieted past midnight.
Tyler lay in bed, listening to the unfamiliar silence that followed days of constant motion. The walls felt full of people, of plans, of unspoken expectations.
He thought of the word celebration.
And how easily it disguised pressure.
Downstairs, someone laughed softly. Somewhere else, a door closed. The house breathed, heavy and awake even as lights went out.
Tomorrow would be the eve.
And after that
Tyler closed his eyes.
Change would no longer be abstract.
Friday bled into Saturday without permission.
By morning, the house felt like it had crossed an invisible line past preparation and into inevitability. The lists on the dining table were no longer plans; they were checkmarks waiting to be filled.
Viola stood at the center of it all, already dressed as if the day demanded ceremony even before it began.
"Breakfast first," she ordered, tapping the table. "No one works on an empty stomach."
Steven obeyed, though he barely touched his food. He kept glancing at the clock, fingers drumming against the edge of his plate.
"What time are the cars coming?" he asked for the third time.
"On time," Viola replied. "They always are."
Richard ate quietly, posture straight, movements precise. Tyler noticed how his uncle folded his napkin, how he set his cup down exactly where it had been before. Control through small things.
Melissa moved around the table, refilling cups, nudging plates closer. She paused once behind Steven and rested her hand on his shoulder.
"You'll be fine," she said softly.
Steven smiled, wide and genuine. "I know."
His thoughts fluttered, bright and unfocused.
It's happening. Finally.
Tyler caught them and let them pass.
The day unfolded in segments.
Morning errands. Final confirmations. A last visit from a tailor who muttered under his breath but nodded approvingly in the end. Relatives drifted in and out, some helpful, some simply curious.
Vanessa arrived mid-morning, calm as ever.
"Did you sleep?" she asked Steven.
"A little," he said. "Enough."
She smiled. "That's all you need."
She spent the next hour smoothing frictions before they could become arguments redirecting conversations, offering solutions before problems were voiced. Tyler noticed how often people looked to her without realizing it.
Pamela arrived shortly after.
She stood near the entryway again, hands folded, eyes scanning. When she noticed Tyler watching, she gave a small, tentative smile.
"Is there anything I can help with?" she asked Melissa.
"Yes," Melissa said warmly. "Come sit for a moment."
Pamela obeyed, relief evident in the way her shoulders dropped.
Tyler drifted through the rooms, helping where he could, listening where he shouldn't. Thoughts brushed past him like static.
I hope this goes smoothly. I wish my dress was nicer. This is all so… much.
None of it stood out. Not yet.
By afternoon, the house reached a strange stillness.
Everything that could be done had been done. Bags were packed. Clothes laid out. Schedules finalized. The noise receded, leaving behind a tense quiet that pressed against everyone's nerves.
Steven couldn't sit still.
He paced the living room, stopped, checked his phone, then paced again. Vanessa watched him with an amused fondness.
"You're allowed to be nervous," she said.
"I'm not nervous," he replied immediately. Then paused. "Okay, maybe a little."
She laughed softly. "That's normal."
Richard retreated to the courtyard.
Tyler followed him out a few minutes later. The evening air was cooler, the sky beginning to dim. Richard sat on the bench, hands clasped, staring at nothing in particular.
"You should rest," Tyler said.
Richard glanced down at him. "You too."
Tyler nodded but didn't move.
"Are you excited?" Richard asked, the question sounding almost like a test.
Tyler considered it. "I think everyone is."
Richard exhaled slowly. "Yeah."
His thoughts were quieter than Steven's had been. He wasn't imagining the ceremony. He wasn't picturing smiles or applause.
He was thinking about afterward.
Be dependable.
Do it right.
Don't fail.
Tyler said nothing.
As evening settled, the house gathered one last time.
Viola reviewed the final details, voice firm but tired. Melissa listened closely, nodding, committing everything to memory. Silas stood slightly apart, arms crossed, eyes thoughtful.
Steven leaned against the wall, energy coiled tight beneath his skin. Pamela sat near Richard, hands folded, posture careful. Vanessa stood beside Steven, steady and composed.
Tyler watched them all.
This was the shape of the family now. Temporary, but real.
Dinner was simple. No one lingered over it. Conversation stayed light, skirting the edge of what tomorrow meant.
Later, one by one, lights went out.
Viola retired early, satisfied for the first time all week. Melissa paused outside Tyler's room, adjusting his blanket when she thought he was asleep.
"Good night," she whispered.
Silas stood in the hallway for a moment longer, listening to the house settle, then turned off the last light.
Tyler lay awake.
He listened to the subtle sounds of breathing, of floors shifting as people moved in their rooms. He thought of the church stone and fire motifs, words spoken with certainty. He thought of vows and witnesses.
And he thought of how tomorrow would lock everything into place.
Not because it was dramatic.
But because it was public.
He closed his eyes, letting the quiet fill him.
Morning would come quickly.
And with it, a moment no one would ever undo.