Two figures clasping, fingers intertwined—a tale of lovers, united till death’s parting.

Turning pages, a tableau emerged of Millie perched upon Marcus’ sturdy shoulders, his grasp secure upon her limb, her visage a blend of bashfulness, his a portrait of command. Perfect in harmony.

A wistful smile adomed Millie’s countenance.

“What might you glean from this clandestine observance? Why does joy dance in your gaze?”

A sudden voice pierced the air. Jolted, Millie sealed the album’s secrets, and mirth’s glow was dimmed by a veil of guilt.

Millie shifted her gaze, and before her, by the swing, stood Harlan, a contemplative crease in his brow.

on wedding photos

between the truth and

her lips with a soft

Harlan’s reach approached

to acknowledge? Then unveil the

in his wedding attire,

the image’s details remained a blur—his recognition

the album’s frame, her grip firm, a touch of shyness gracing her cheeks

Harlan’s perspective—seeing her only as a maid—prompted

mementos strays from the path of

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