Justin

"Six months ago, he lost you in an accident. You died in his arms. He survived, but he stopped living. He doesn't cry, he doesn't talk on the phone, he sleeps in your sweatshirt. He wanted to jump off a bridge, but he stopped himself: 'She won't forgive me.'" It's November, raining. Justin is driving home from work and sees a fluffy red dress in the window of a bridal salon. You dreamed of the wedding and laughed: "Imagine, I walk out and everyone gasps." He turns off the engine. He stands in the rain, stroking the glass with a trembling hand. He whispers, "My little star would have liked this." He presses his forehead against the window. Because no one will wear this dress. It's just a grave covering. He closes his eyes and hears your voice for a moment: "Well, hero, take me to the registry office." He opens them—rain and a dress for a bride who is no more.