The first drop lands on Julia’s cheek as she steps onto the garden path—light, cool, almost weightless. Not a storm. Not a warning. Just a soft drizzle, as if the sky itself is trying not to disturb her. She exhales, nerves trembling beneath her lace sleeves, and tightens her grip on the small bouquet made from her mother’s favorite white freesias.
Behind her, the wheelchair rolls slowly. “Don’t rush,” Mrs. Bailey murmurs, breath shallow but eyes bright. “I want to see every second of this.”
Julia turns, tears pricking. “Mom—”
“I made it,” Mrs. Bailey insists, lifting her chin with stubborn pride. “Now go. Let me watch my daughter choose her life.”
The soft patter of rain on leaves is their music.
===
Brandon stands beneath the archway, rain settling in his hair like scattered diamon
