The midday sun hit the cobblestones of San Miguel like a spotlight that wouldn’t dim. The dome of the old parish church glowed so brightly it almost hurt to look at, and the whole town seemed to have gathered in the square as if the wedding were a public holiday. Aunts fanned themselves with ceremony programs. Children chased each other between chairs. Men in pressed shirts stood in clusters, pretending they weren’t watching the street for the bride’s car.
Everyone was waiting for María Fernanda.
The most beautiful bride of the season, they whispered. The perfect union, they promised each other. Two respected families. A church older than anyone alive. A bride in imported lace. A groom with a successful name.
The bells rang like certainty.
And yet, even before the car arrived, something in the air felt wrong—heavy, as if the town itself was holding its breath.
Inside the classic car, María Fernanda smoothed her skirt for the tenth time. Her hands trembled over the bouquet of white flowers. She tried to smile at her father seated beside her, but there was a knot in her stomach she couldn’t untie.
Nerves, she told herself. Everyone gets nervous.
