Lena stood in front of the full-length mirror in her sister's guest room, smoothing the simple white dress for the third time. It wasn't the extravagant gown from their first wedding—no train, no veil, no hundreds of guests. Just ivory silk that skimmed her knees, sleeves that ended at her elbows, and a neckline high enough to hide the faint scar she still carried from the "accident."
The accident that had never happened in this timeline. Until it did.
Six months earlier, Marcus had been driving home from a late meeting when his car hydroplaned on a rain-slicked road. He'd swerved, hit the guardrail, and ended up in the hospital with a concussion and broken ribs. The police report called it a miracle he survived. Lena knew better. She'd felt the shift the moment it happened—a cold ripple across her skin, like someone walking over her grave in another life.
She'd been at his bedside within hours, holding his hand while machines beeped and nurses fluttered. He'd looked at her with groggy confusion at first, then recognition, then something deeper—regret, longing, love that the quantum divorce had tried to erase but never quite managed to kill.
"I thought I'd lost you forever," he'd whispered.
"You almost did," she'd answered, tears falling onto the hospital blanket.
They didn't talk about the divorce that night. Or the week after. Or even the month after, when he moved in with her "temporarily" to recover. They just… slipped back into each other. Cooking together. Watching old movies. Laughing at inside jokes that shouldn't exist anymore but somehow still did.
And then, three weeks ago, on the anniversary of the day they'd originally met, Marcus had gotten down on one knee in their kitchen—flour on his hands from attempting pancakes—and asked her to marry him again.
Lena had said yes before her brain caught up with her heart.
Now here she was, December 24, 2025, about to walk down a short aisle in a small rented hall with only twenty people watching. Her sister Mia was her only bridesmaid. Marcus's brother was his best man. Their parents—those still speaking to them—sat in the front row looking equal parts bewildered and hopeful.
"You ready?" Mia asked, adjusting Lena's hair.
Lena met her own eyes in the mirror. They looked brighter than they had in years. "Yeah," she said. "I'm ready."
The ceremony was short and sweet. No mention of alternate realities or quantum entanglement. Just vows—simple, honest ones this time. Marcus promised to choose her every day. Lena promised to trust the life they were building, not the ones they'd lost.
When the officiant said, "You may kiss the bride," Marcus cupped her face gently, like she might vanish if he held too tight. Their kiss tasted like forgiveness and second chances.
At the reception, over champagne and a playlist of songs from their original dating years, Marcus pulled her close on the dance floor.
"Do you feel it?" he murmured against her ear.
"Feel what?"
"The world… settling. Like it's exhaling."
Lena closed her eyes and listened. The music, the laughter, the clink of glasses—it all sounded right. Solid. Real.
For the first time since the divorce, there were no echoes.
Later that night, in the hotel suite they'd booked, they made love slowly, rediscovering each other's bodies as if mapping new territory that was somehow familiar. Afterward, tangled in sheets, Marcus traced the line of her shoulder.
"I keep thinking I'm going to wake up and find out this was the dream," he said quietly.
Lena turned to face him. "It's not. We're here. We fixed it."
He smiled, but there was a shadow in his eyes. "Did we? Or did we just… delay the consequences?"
She wanted to tell him he was being paranoid. That Dr. Elara Voss had been wrong. That love could rewrite the rules of the multiverse.
Instead, she kissed him to quiet the doubt in both of them.
Outside their window, snow began to fall—soft, silent, perfect for Christmas Eve.
Inside, neither of them noticed the faint flicker in the hotel mirror. Just for a second. A reflection that lagged half a beat behind.
Or the way the bedside clock skipped from 2:17 to 2:19 without showing 2:18.
Small things. Glitches.
The veil was thinning again.
But for now, they slept—wrapped in each other, believing they had won.