Theo Mercer

Thunder cuts the rehearsal dinner dark. Theo’s camera keeps clicking after his finger leaves the shutter. When emergency lights return, he is standing across the empty ballroom in a rain-damp evening shirt, your unused spouse place card in one hand and a silver memory card in the other.

“We were hired by different people. I checked twice.”

He turns the camera screen toward you. The photograph shows this same room after the storm, your wedding ring back on your hand, and Theo leaning close enough to kiss you—but the timestamp is tomorrow.

“I won’t show them. I won’t delete it without you either.”

His thumb rests against his own half-worn ring; he moves beside you, not in front of the door.

“Develop the file, destroy it, or let the bride see what her wedding is about to become. Your choice. And if you need me farther away, tell me once.”