Only she remembered what happened on her wedding day.

The morning after her wedding, Anya woke to sunlight splintering through the curtains of a room that wasn’t hers. Her wedding dress, once pristine and silk-white, now lay folded at the foot of the bed like an offering—dry, spotless, and untouched. The flowers in her hair had vanished. Her phone was missing. And beside her, the space where was empty and cold. The place where her husband should have been.

Downstairs, her mother was humming in the kitchen. Calm. Too calm.

Anna walked in, barefoot, her voice hoarse. “Where’s James? How did I get here?"

Her mother turned with a puzzled smile. “Who? You don't remember driving over last night?"

She stared. “James. My husband. No, mom I don't remember. "

There was a pause.

The kind of pause that made the air feel heavy. As if all the air had just been sucked out of the room.

“Sweetheart,” her mother said gently, “I don't know any James, " she says as she turns back towards the stove. "You called me yesterday about 6:30 and said you needed to get away and talk but when you got here you didn't say a word. You went to your old room and went to sleep I guess."

Anna’s skin prickled. “What are you talking about? Our wedding was yesterday. At Saint Mary’s. You helped me with the veil. You wore a purple dress. You cried during the vows.”

Her mother turned her head slightly as she set down the spatula. She turned away from the stove after turning it off. She stepped closer to Anya. Brandishing that patient, yet cautious look reserved for the unwell.

“Anya, there was no wedding. She holds the back of her hand up to Anya's cheek and forehead. "Are you feeling alright?"

Panic rose like a tide within Anya. Anya bolted to the living room, yanked open drawers, searched for invitations, photos, anything that indicated James was real and that this was some kind of mistake. Nothing. She found nothing to reassure her. She began doubting her memories. The room was closing in on he she was was having a panic attack. "Anya, honey are you alright? What are you looking for?" Her mother says with much concern in her voice. "Nothing, umm my phone. Have you seen it mom?"

"It's probably in your room."

Her phone was gone. Her emails were blank. Her calendar showed nothing for August 7th. Anya retreas to her room and gets dressed hastily. Peering out the window to the drive she lets out a sigh of relief. "At least my car is here she thinks to herself." She finished getting ready by slipping on her shoes. She tells her mom she'll be back shortly and heads out the front door. She climbs in her car and breathes in deeply, slowly exhaling she turns the key and puts on her seatbelt. By noonshe was at Saint Mary's church.

The church was empty, dark, and locked. No petals on the floor, no ribbons on the pews from what she could tell by looking through the windows. "May I help you?" A voice rang from behind her.The priest—Father Mallory—. "What a relief surely he'll remember something, anything at this point would suffice." Anya asked him if he remembered James and her wedding just yesterday.

“I’m sorry?" he said Anya. Are you feeling alright? I haven't seen you in months and I don't know any James "

She wasn’t. She wasn't feeling well at all. She tris hard to keep her composure around father Mallory. "How is this happening?" It felt like the world was tearing apart around her. She didn't feel like she was even living her life anymore. "Nothing makes sense."

She remembered everything that happened yesterday but all she could focus on was picturing James and worrying that he was hurt or lost. She remembes

The lemon cake with lavender frosting. The way James whispered her name as they kissed. The rain that stopped just in time for the ceremony. The odd flicker of the chandelier in the old church hall. The moment—clear as crystal—when the wind picked up during their vows, carrying a faint, foreign voice she couldn't place, whispering something she hadn't quite heard. She remembers falling asleep with her husband and she forces herself to focus as she scowers the internet.

That night, after another fruitless search through the internet, Anya turns off the computer and picks up her tea. She slowly walks around her room as she gets a bit of a chill. She takes a cardigan off the back of her bedroom door where she finally found something.

A photo.

Just one.

On the back of her closet door, under where her cardigan was was a scotch-taped photograph. A polaroid: her in her dress with James beside her, smiling—hand in hand. She notices the edges were burned. "How did that happen?"

She turns the poloroid over. Scrawled in messy ink were the words:

"You weren't supposed to remember."