The Bride I Used to Be

The silence came first, heavy and unnatural, pressing down on her chest as if the air itself was unwilling to carry a sound. When her eyes opened, the world swam into view in slow, uncertain pieces. A ceiling rose above her, pale and high, its edges shrouded in dimness. Shadows clung to the corners, stretching long fingers into the light that slipped through velvet curtains. She lay in a bed too soft to feel real, wrapped in linen that smelled faintly of lavender and something older, a scent of dust and time.

Her lips parted instinctively. The urge to speak came with the weight of her breath, but the moment she tried, the truth struck like a blow. No sound came. Her throat ached with dryness, and her voice, that natural companion to thought, had abandoned her. She tried again, pushing harder, yet only silence answered. Panic coiled inside her. The silence was not the silence of a room but the silence of her own body refusing to obey.

She sat up slowly, every movement sending a tremor through limbs that felt both hers and not hers. Her palms pressed into the mattress, steadying her as the world tilted and righted itself again. Her gaze swept the room. It was too beautiful, too precise, as if it had been arranged for display rather than living. The curtains were drawn enough to hide the world outside, leaving the light filtered and cold. A vanity with an oval mirror stood by the far wall, its polished surface gleaming faintly. A small chair rested before it, pushed in with the exactness of a servant afraid of displeasing a master.

She turned her head and the mirror caught her. For a moment, she did not recognize the face staring back. The woman’s skin looked pale against the dark shadows of the room. Her hair, tangled and damp against her temples, framed wide eyes that seemed both haunted and searching. She lifted a trembling hand to her cheek, and the woman in the mirror did the same. Recognition came with hesitation. It was her face, but altered somehow, as if the soul behind the eyes had been bruised by something she could not yet recall.

The door creaked open. Her head whipped toward it, breath caught in her chest. A man entered with measured steps, his presence commanding the space before his voice followed. He was tall, his frame outlined by a suit of dark fabric that seemed chosen for both elegance and authority. His eyes, shadowed yet intense, settled on her with a weight that made her straighten instinctively.

“You are awake,” he said quietly, his voice carrying the calm certainty of someone who expected to be obeyed.

Her mouth moved, her tongue heavy with unspoken words. Nothing came. The panic returned, swelling sharp in her chest. She gestured weakly, a hand raised as if to shape questions she could not give sound to.

He approached, the measured grace of his steps suggesting caution. “Do not strain yourself,” he said, his tone softening though his gaze did not waver. “The doctors warned this might happen. Your voice will return in time.”

The words should have comforted her, yet they did not. Doctors. Recovery. Why did the words feel like veils instead of truths?

He stopped a few steps from the bed. For a long moment, silence stretched between them, filled only by the sound of her shallow breathing. He studied her as if searching for something fragile that might slip away if he looked too carelessly. His expression held composure, but there was a flicker beneath it—concern, guilt, or perhaps fear.

“You are safe here,” he said at last, his tone steady. “This is Blackwood Manor.”

The name fell into the room like a stone into deep water, creating ripples that stirred nothing in her memory. Blackwood Manor. It carried weight, history, but to her it was empty. She shook her head slightly, confusion written in her furrowed brow.

He stepped closer, the light from the window catching the sharp lines of his face. He was handsome in a way that seemed carved, precise and deliberate, like a figure sculpted to embody authority. His eyes, dark and restless, searched hers for recognition.

“You are Bliss,” he said, his voice firm yet almost tender, as though naming her might anchor her. “Do you remember that much?”

Her chest tightened. Bliss. The name drifted through her like an echo, a sound both hers and not hers. It fit her lips when she mouthed it silently, yet it felt unfinished, like a role handed to her in a play she did not recall rehearsing. She gave a hesitant nod, uncertain if it was truth or surrender.

He exhaled, a faint trace of relief breaking through the formality of his demeanor. “Good. That is all you need to know for now.”

He reached out, fingers brushing a lock of her hair from her face with the ease of someone who had done it many times before. The gesture was intimate, too familiar, yet her body stiffened beneath it. A quiet unease stirred in her chest. His touch did not hurt, but it carried with it the weight of expectation.

He seemed to notice her discomfort. His hand dropped, his eyes lingering on her as though reluctant to release the moment. “You must rest,” he said, the softness fading back into command. “There will be time to explain everything when you are stronger. For now, trust me.”

Trust. The word rang hollow. His eyes held the promise of protection, but his shoulders carried tension he could not hide. He was a man holding too tightly to something fragile, and she was the fragile thing in his grasp.

He turned and walked to the door. The silence followed him like a shadow. With one last look over his shoulder, he closed it behind him, and the latch clicked with finality.

She was alone again.

The room, though beautiful, felt like a cage. She lowered herself back into the bed, the linen cool against her skin. Her gaze drifted to the vanity once more. The woman in the mirror still stared, eyes wide and filled with questions. Who was she? Why was she here?

Her hand moved unconsciously to her throat. Her silence felt less like an injury and more like a theft. Someone had taken her voice, her past, and perhaps even her name. She whispered soundlessly to the ceiling, forming the only thought that refused to let her rest.

If she was Bliss now, then who had she been before?

The question lingered like a ghost, pressing against her as she closed her eyes. The silence offered no answer.