When the church doors opened, my fiancée wasn’t wearing white — she was in a wedding dress made from army shirts. The room went silent. Then she stopped halfway down the aisle, looked at me, and said something that made me think the wedding was over.
For months, my fiancée, Clara, had been acting strangely. Every night after dinner, she disappeared into the spare room at the end of the hall, which she’d converted into a sewing room.
We were getting married in six weeks, and she’d decided to make her own dress, so I didn’t think much of it at first.
“How’s the dress coming along?” I asked one night.
She smiled. “It’s going to be really special.”
Then she went down the hall and shut herself in. A few minutes later, the sewing machine started.
My fiancée, Clara, had been acting strangely.
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