He sat on the edge of the mattress, his thumbs flying across the glowing screen of his phone.

"Boston is dropping to fifty degrees tonight. Make sure you wear a jacket," Alex muttered, tapping the send button. "Call me the second you land."

He locked the device and finally looked up. His gaze snagged on my soaked clothes, water still dripping from my hem onto the bedroom rug.

"Why haven't you showered yet?" he asked, his brow furrowing.

"Did you know it rained in New York today, Alex?" I asked.

He froze. Annoyance flashed across his features, hardening his jaw. "How am I supposed to track the weather every single day?"

He tracked a city two hundred miles away, but not the one we lived in.

I turned my back to him and walked out to the living room. I dragged the garment bag off the kitchen island and unzipped the plastic. A puddle formed on the hardwood floor. I pulled the silk fabric free, spreading the heavy gown over the sofa cushions.

The lily-of-the-valley embroidery—stitched by my mother before she passed away—was ruined. The vibrant green and white threads bled into the pristine ivory silk, muddying the delicate pattern.

*Marry a man who will hold an umbrella for you, Iris.*

Her final whisper echoed in my ears, louder than the storm outside.

Alex followed me into the room. He squatted next to the sofa, inspecting the waterlogged fabric with a dismissive glance.

"Send it to a dry cleaner tomorrow," he said. "It should still be wearable."

"What if the stains don't wash out?" I asked, my fingers tracing the ruined flowers.

He stood up, already losing interest. "Then just change into another one."

He said it so casually. Like swapping a coffee cup.

Before I could reply, his phone buzzed loudly against the coffee table. He answered it on the first ring.

"Alex..." Celeste’s voice trembled through the speaker, thick with panic and tears. "My flight was diverted to Philly. There's lightning everywhere outside the terminal. I'm too scared to go out."

Alex’s face drained of color. He snatched his car keys from the console.

"Don't move," he said, his voice dropping into a soft, comforting register I hadn't heard in years. "I'm coming to get you right now."

"I'm so cold," she sobbed.

"Take out the gray cardigan. It's in the outermost layer of your suitcase. Put it on first."

My chest tightened. He knew exactly where her sweater was packed. He knew the layers of her luggage, but he didn't know I had sprinted six blocks in a torrential downpour because he told me to leave my umbrella behind.

He marched to the entryway and grabbed the only long-handled umbrella from the ceramic stand. The one I had custom-ordered for him. The handle bore our anniversary date and a Latin phrase: *I remembered.*

"Philadelphia is three hours away," I said, watching his hand wrap around the engraved wood. "You're driving there now?"

"She's terrified of thunder," he shot back, not looking at me.

He shoved his arms into his trench coat. He paused with his hand on the doorknob.

"Her apartment has a roof leak. She might need to crash here for a couple of days. Clean out the study."

"This is our marital home, Alex."

"She is only staying two nights." His tone turned to ice, slicing through the quiet room. "We are getting married the day after tomorrow. Can you stop being so unreasonable at a time like this?"

The heavy door slammed shut.

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I watched his red taillights vanish into the blinding rain.

By four in the morning, my skin burned.

I dragged myself to the master bathroom and yanked open the medicine cabinet. My hands shook as I pushed aside bottles of vitamins and shaving cream. Empty.

"We're out of fever reducers," I had told him last Tuesday.

He had been scrolling through his weather app. He never looked up. He never bought them.

I slid down the cold wall, pulling my knees to my chest. The apartment felt like an icebox.

At seven o'clock, the front door clicked open.

Alex ushered Celeste inside. Rain soaked the entire left side of his shirt, plastering the fabric to his skin. He had tilted the wide, custom umbrella completely over her, shielding her from a single drop. She stood perfectly dry in the center of the entryway.

"Put your bags down here," Alex told her gently. He turned to me, his voice flattening instantly. "Iris, go boil some ginger soup for her."

I stood by the kitchen island, gripping the marble edge to keep my balance. "I have a fever."

Alex frowned. He closed the distance between us and pressed the back of his hand to my forehead. He withdrew it a second later.

"Then take some medicine yourself," he said.

"We don't have any."

"Celeste had pneumonia as a kid," he snapped, ignoring my response. "Her health is much worse than yours. Don't compare yourself to her."

He didn't ask if I was okay. He didn't ask how high my fever was. He just walked past me to take her coat.

Celeste stepped further into the living room, rubbing her arms. Her eyes scanned the space, finally landing on the ruined silk dress draped over the sofa.

She walked over. Her fingers brushed the water-stained lily-of-the-valley embroidery on the hem. A soft, nostalgic smile touched her lips, completely transforming her face.

"Alex," Celeste said, her voice dropping to a sweet, intimate whisper.

He turned around. "Yeah?"

"You actually remembered I wanted a lily-of-the-valley wedding dress."

The room went dead silent. The only sound was the rain lashing against the glass.

She looked up at him, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "I thought you had long forgotten about that canceled wedding of ours."

I stared at the ruined flowers my mother had spent months sewing. The centerpiece of my gown. The symbol of my future.

It was never my dress at all.

I looked at the closed bedroom door, knowing my packed suitcase sat waiting in the dark.

"Alex," I said quietly, cutting through their shared silence. "We need to talk about the wedding."

"She picked the dress herself," Alex said, his tone defensive. "It has nothing to do with you."

Celeste traced the ruined embroidery on the sofa cushions. "I just didn't expect her to like the exact same things I do."

"I wanted camellias," I said.

Alex stiffened.

Two months ago, he had sat at the dining table, crossing out my mother's favorite flower on the design sketch. *Camellias are too bright,* he had told me. *Lilies of the valley suit you better.*

I had smiled that day, thrilled he was finally participating in the wedding plans. Now, the truth sat bitter on my tongue. He wasn't choosing my flowers. He was resurrecting her dress.

The next morning, Celeste moved through our kitchen like she owned the title deed. She bypassed the light roast I drank, reaching straight for the top-left cabinet to grab Alex's preferred dark beans.

When Alex emerged from the bathroom, his hair dripping wet, she handed him a towel instead of the hair dryer. He never dried his hair right away. I had spent six years thinking he was just lazy.

Alex winced, shifting his weight to his left side.

Celeste immediately dropped to her knees. She peeled the backing off a medicated patch and pressed it firmly against his right calf. "Still aching from the dampness?"

"Yeah. The rain always makes it flare up," he murmured.

I stared at his leg. "You never told me it hurt."

Every time it rained, his temper would sour. Whenever I asked if he felt sick, he would snap, *It's nothing. Stop making a fuss.*

He didn't hate showing weakness. He just never wanted to show it to me.

I grabbed my purse from the counter. "Make your own coffee. I'm going to the office."

Alex scowled. "Let her go," he told Celeste. "The more you coddle her, the worse her temper gets."

Director Miller slid my resignation letter into his top drawer. "I'll keep this quiet until the end of the week. But why now, Iris? You turned Einar Voss down three times."

"I ran out of things to give up," I said.

"Reykjavik is a long way from New York."

"That's exactly why I'm going."

When I returned to the apartment that evening, half of the walk-in closet was bare.

Celeste's designer luggage sat neatly in the empty spaces. My clothes lay in a wrinkled heap on the guest bed, burying the immigration documents I needed for tomorrow.

Alex leaned against the doorframe. "Just fold yours up for now. You can hang them back up when she leaves."

I didn't argue. I opened my hard-shell suitcase and placed my clothes inside, one by one.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"I just think people should pack their own things," I replied.

The following afternoon, the hotel ballroom echoed with the sound of scaffolding.

Mr. Davis, the venue manager, adjusted his glasses. "Let's review the setup before we finalize the transfer. Lily of the valley flower wall, artificial rain curtain, Boston cobblestone backdrop, and the 'Waiting for the Rain to Stop' theme."

My fingers went numb against the table.

A young assistant hurried over, handing Davis a yellowed folder. "Sir, I pulled the original 2017 planning file from the archives to check the lighting cues."

Davis opened it. I saw the bride's name printed at the top in bold black ink.

*Celeste Moreau.*

The venue, the flowers, the music, the dessert flavors. Everything matched tomorrow's schedule perfectly.

"Let's test the audio," Davis said.

The speakers crackled. Alex's voice filled the cavernous room, younger and fiercely earnest.

*No matter what city you live in, I will remember the weather. If it rains, I'll pick you up. You don't need an umbrella, because I will always find you.*

I stared at the artificial rain curtain hanging above the stage. He planned to recite his vows to his ex-girlfriend while looking me in the eye. He couldn't even be bothered to change the script.

The ballroom doors swung open.

Celeste strolled in, her eyes lighting up at the floral arrangements. She thought I was just here to confirm the timeline. She walked straight onto the stage, stopping right beneath the rain curtain.

She spread her arms wide as the artificial drizzle began to fall behind her. She looked radiant. She looked exactly like the bride.

Footsteps pounded against the marble floor. Alex sprinted into the hall, his face pale.

"Celeste!" he shouted. "Your studio just called. The wind blew the windows open. Your mother's vintage performance costumes are getting soaked."

Celeste gasped, covering her mouth.

Alex turned on his heel, ready to bolt.

"Mr. Mercer," Davis called out, stepping in his path. "The rain curtain equipment hasn't been properly calibrated yet. We need you to sign off."

"I'll cover whatever damages there are," Alex snapped.

He grabbed the stack of heavy-duty waterproof tarps the event staff had prepared for the outdoor reception. He didn't leave a single one behind.

He glanced at me over his shoulder. "You stay and watch the run-through."

"Okay," I said.

I picked up the pen and signed my name on the final line of the venue transfer agreement.

Late that night, my phone vibrated on the kitchen counter. A text from Alex lit up the screen.

*Costumes are safe. Not a single one got ruined. You watch the hotel stuff yourself, don't rely on me for everything.*

I locked the screen. I didn't reply.

I walked down the hall to the study to grab my mother's weather journals. She had tracked the rain for twenty-seven years before she died. They were the only things I had left of her.

I pushed the door open.

Celeste's shopping bags and shoe boxes covered every surface. The wooden shelves were completely empty.

Panic spiked in my chest. "Where are they?" I whispered.

I checked the living room. I checked the hallway closets.

Finally, I opened the door to the enclosed balcony. The space was freezing. The landlord hadn't fixed the roof leak yet.

A gust of wind slammed into my face. The balcony window was wide open.

My mother's twenty-seven journals sat stacked on a patio chair right beneath the sill.

The sky cracked with thunder.

The first heavy drop of rain slipped through the open window, landing directly on the cover of the top journal.