The stranger reached into his jacket. Helen went rigid. He withdrew something small; she couldn’t make out what from where she was standing. Then, he closed his fist around it and pressed it against his chest, against his sternum. He held it there for the rest of the ceremony without moving it once. He barely moved; just sat, watching the altar.
The vows. Helen spoke hers to Richard. She had written them herself, revised them eleven times, knew them by heart, and somewhere in the middle she realised she was crying and couldn’t trace the exact moment it had started. She said the words. Richard said his. Then, just to her left, she heard it: quiet, private weeping. The stranger.