The priest's words fell on her like rain: "Fredrich and Lina, do you take each other . . ."
The promise to be together, through sickness, health, life, death. The landscapes of vows are always dramatic—emotional resonances softened by tradition.
Lina met Fredrich's gaze and found him quiet, almost fragile in the shifting lamplight. This man . . . he'd orchestrated a million scenes—romantic dinners, calculated gestures, territory-marking rules.
But here, fragile with tubes and heart monitors, he seemed real for the first time. However, she knew better.
The priest asked, "Do you, Lina, take Fredrich to be your wedded husband . . . ?"
She paused a heartbeat longer than necessary, wondering what she'd say next would define their future.
"I do," she replied, steady.
Fredrich's lips twitched upward in something softer than his usual controlled smile—something that looked almost like gratitude. He squeezed her hand.
The priest closed the small bedside Bible.
