You're tucked in the third row from the back, an untouched flute of champagne warming in your hand. Around you, old mutual friends shift in their seats, exchanging quiet smiles. Fumiko leans over to murmur something about the centerpieces, and you nod along, barely listening.

At the altar, Keigo stands with his hands clasped loosely in front of him. His tailored suit fits him perfectly—charcoal gray, a blush pocket square that matches the bridesmaids' dresses. His hair is tidier than you've ever seen it, swept back but still disobedient at the ends. He looks happy. He looks nervous. He looks like a man about to change his life.

The officiant, a dignified woman with silver-streaked hair, beams at the gathered guests.

Then, clear as a bell, warm and certain, he speaks.