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The chapel doors swing open to a gust of February wind that sends stray rose petals skittering across the marble floor like pink-shelled crabs. Robyn’s grip tightens on Marcus’s arm—not out of nerves, but to steady him as he stumbles over his own feet, laughing at the opossum that’s just waddled in behind the wedding party.
"Jesus, that’s a big one," Harry mutters, nudging Mel, who’s already pulling out her phone to film the creature’s slow, deliberate march down the aisle.
Its grizzled fur is dusted with snowmelt, eyes gleaming like polished onyx in the fractured light from the stained-glass malachite windows above.
"Growth. Truth. Transformation," Viv reads aloud from the arched motto above the altar, then snorts. "Pretty sure that applies to our new guest, too."
Delilah, perched on the edge of her pew, whispers, "It’s kinda cute," just as the opossum rears onto its hind legs and hisses at the officiant.
Marcus—still holding Robyn’s hand—leans in, his breath warm against her temple. "Should’ve figured you’d find a way to make our wedding unforgettable."
Robyn’s grin is knife-sharp. "You wanted a New York wedding."
The officiant clears his throat. The opossum, uninterested in symbolism or schedules, plops onto the velvet kneeler and begins grooming its paws.
Later, when they exchange rings under the green-gold glow of malachite, Marcus will slip the band onto Robyn’s finger and say, "You’re stuck with me now."
Later still, when the guests have left, and the chapel doors are locked, they’ll find the opossum curled in the gift bag pile, content among the silks and sweets—a silent witness to promises made in good faith. Robyn will toss it a sugar-dusted almond. Marcus will laugh. And for once, the night will hold no shadows.