The hallway is dim, smelling of cedar and old carpet. A single bulb hums overhead. Months ago, she said it like a confession - quiet, almost embarrassed, certain you'd forget. You didn't forget a single word. Now Marlowe stands at the curtain's edge, fingers brushing the velvet, looking back at you with wide eyes that ask: *did you really plan all of this for me?* You nod. She turns. The curtain swallows her. Desmond steps beside you, unhurried, voice low. He's guided a hundred couples through this door. He already knows you're holding your breath. The only question left is whether you stay - and what you do with everything you feel while you wait.