I remember that morning down to the smallest detail.
The city breathed June — it smelled of linden blossoms, gasoline, and fresh bread from the bakery on the corner.
The air was thick and golden, as if someone had poured honey over the streets.
The wedding was set for noon.
She stood by the window in a white dress that felt too quiet for her.
I saw how she smoothed the delicate edge of her veil, as though afraid a single movement might tear it.
The groom arrived early.
He took off his jacket, exhaled deeply, and pulled from a carrier a tiny white rabbit.
“He’ll be our good-luck charm,” he said.
She laughed softly — a little uncertain — and took the creature into her hands.
The rabbit trembled like a snowflake in her palm.
She held it to her chest, and for a moment, everything seemed to stop.
The photographer clicked away, guests clapped, someone whispered, “How touching.”
But then, something went wrong.
The rabbit wriggled free, jumped to the floor, and darted toward the door like a flash of light.
Someone gasped, someone laughed — but she ran after it.
I saw the hem of her dress flicker through patches of sunlight,
saw her run barefoot into the yard,
bracelets jingling on her wrists as she called its name.
The rabbit slipped through the gate —
and so did she.
Minutes passed. At first, everyone waited. Then they started searching.
He ran across the yard, calling her name, voice cracking.
And then he found the dress. On the grass.
White, damp with dew, the hem snagged, one button missing.
She was gone. Just gone.
Later she said the rabbit had somehow shown her where to look —
toward the place where life didn’t feel like someone else’s script.
The wedding never happened.
But that day I understood something: sometimes it’s not accident that ruins everything —
it’s opportunity, disguised as a white rabbit.
And ever since, whenever I pass that bakery,
I still smell linden in the air
and hear, somewhere far off, the soft hopping of someone’s quiet talisman.
