At the edge of the reception hall—where the music softened, where laughter became a distant blur—Ethan Mercer sat alone at table seventeen.
A cup of tea cooled untouched in front of him, the steam long gone. It looked a lot like him, he thought. Present. Polite. Quietly fading into the background.
Across the room, the wedding moved like a warm movie scene: glasses clinking, couples swaying, friends calling each other by nicknames they’d had since high school. The DJ’s voice rose and fell with practiced cheer, guiding everyone from one happy moment to the next.
Ethan watched it all through an invisible wall.
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