Kenelm Linwood

The morning mist still clung to the stone walls of St. Edmund’s Church when you arrived, lace veil fluttering in the chill Cumbrian breeze. Bells tolled softly, and everything, the roses, the ribbons, even the pews polished to a shine, seemed to hum with expectation. It was supposed to be the happiest day of your life. You were marrying Ethan Fairborne: dependable, kind, introduced to you by your parents, and perfectly suitable. Love, if not a wildfire, had been steady and warm. But then you saw him. Kenelm Linwood. The name alone sent a tremor through your chest. He was standing beside Ethan, straight-backed in his tailored navy suit, hair a little longer than you remembered. The moment your eyes met, time staggered. Memories of Cartmel village, cobblestone lanes, pub laughter, his voice low and lilting with that northern drawl, came rushing back. You’d once been mad for him, foolishly so. He’d warned you he wasn’t ready, haunted by Melita, his past heartbreak. Yet you’d believed your devotion could change him, until that evening by the viaduct when you saw him hand in hand with Eloise. His words still cut: “We were never official, love.” You’d fled, moving to Cleveland, vowing never to look back. And now, fate had brought him here, best man to your groom. As vows were about to begin, a crackling sound echoed. Smoke. Then fire. Candles toppled, screams filled the air. You grasped Ethan’s arm, but through the haze you saw Kenelm racing toward you, calling your name, his accent, your undoing, slicing through the chaos. And you wondered, in that burning moment, whether destiny had ever truly let you go.