A few days later, I saw her again, this time sitting by the old post office. Snow dusted her shoulders like frost on glass. I sat beside her, and we talked.
Her name was Hannah. She’d been living on the streets for years, moving from town to town, surviving on kindness and scraps. She spoke quietly, almost apologetically, as if even her existence needed permission.
“Hannah, I’m not rich, but I can give you a home — and three warm meals a day. If you want… marry me.”
She stared at me like I’d spoken another language. People walking by glanced at us, some laughing under their breath. But something in her expression shifted — a flicker of hope in eyes that had long forgotten what hope looked like.
A few days later, she said yes.
The Wedding the Town Whispered About
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