The mar­quee, once a place of cel­e­bra­tion and warmth, now feels like a hol­low shell, filled with peo­ple left stunned by the shock­ing rev­e­la­tion. The Brides­maid stands among them, her face pale, pro­cess­ing the weight of what has just unfold­ed. The Irish police have spo­ken, their voic­es cold and unwa­ver­ing, deliv­er­ing the grim details of their dis­cov­ery and the arrest that fol­lowed. The weight of their words lingers in the air, wrap­ping the gath­ered crowd in a shroud of con­fu­sion, fear, and hushed spec­u­la­tion. The only sound that per­sists is the faint rustling of foil blan­kets as peo­ple shift in their seats, a sub­tle but per­sis­tent reminder that, despite the still­ness, life con­tin­ues to move for­ward.

Olivia sits among them, but she feels detached, as if watch­ing every­thing unfold from behind an invis­i­ble bar­ri­er. Her mind is a whirl­wind of con­flict­ing emotions—shock, dis­be­lief, some­thing that resem­bles relief but is quick­ly chased away by guilt. For months, her thoughts had been con­sumed by him, tan­gled in an obses­sion that she nev­er ful­ly under­stood, but now, with the news of his death, the weight of those thoughts takes on a new, unset­tling form.

She strug­gles to process it, to align the cold final­i­ty of his absence with the per­son he had been just hours before. The mem­o­ry of their last encounter replays in her mind, grow­ing heav­ier with each pass, taint­ed by some­thing she can­not ignore. The cake-cut­ting cer­e­mo­ny with Jules had been an ordi­nary moment, one that should have fad­ed into the back­ground of the night, but instead, it lingers with eerie sig­nif­i­cance.

A sin­gle, fleet­ing thought had crossed her mind dur­ing that moment—an impulse, a brief imag­in­ing of some­thing vio­lent. It had come and gone in an instant, dis­missed as quick­ly as it arrived, but now it feels like an indict­ment, a damn­ing piece of evi­dence buried with­in her own con­science. Did that thought mat­ter? Did it mean some­thing? Could some­thing so fleet­ing hold any real sig­nif­i­cance in the wake of what had hap­pened?

The pos­si­bil­i­ty that thoughts could have pow­er beyond the mind unset­tles her, mak­ing her ques­tion the thin, frag­ile line between impulse and real­i­ty. She had nev­er con­sid­ered her­self capa­ble of real harm, yet the thought had been there, how­ev­er brief, how­ev­er mean­ing­less. And now, as she sits in the suf­fo­cat­ing silence of the mar­quee, she can­not help but wonder—does think­ing about some­thing make it real? Does it plant a seed, an idea, that might some­day man­i­fest?

She steals a glance at the peo­ple around her, afraid to meet their eyes, afraid that they might see the doubt and fear creep­ing into her expres­sion. The guilt she feels is irra­tional, but that does not make it any less suf­fo­cat­ing. It clings to her, mak­ing her feel as though she has crossed a thresh­old she nev­er meant to approach, as though she is com­plic­it in a crime she nev­er com­mit­ted.

Her thoughts drift to Char­lie, to their last con­ver­sa­tion before the tragedy unfold­ed. It had been a sim­ple exchange, noth­ing remark­able, but now it feels laced with an unease she can’t place. She won­ders if, deep down, she had already sensed some­thing was wrong, if the uni­verse had tried to warn her in ways she had ignored.

Doubt tight­ens its grip, forc­ing her to con­front a truth she does not want to face—that dark­ness does not always exist in the out­side world but some­times lingers with­in, qui­et and unno­ticed. It is an uncom­fort­able real­iza­tion, one that makes her feel unsteady, as though she is tee­ter­ing on the edge of some­thing she does not yet under­stand. She tries to push the thought away, to remind her­self that a pass­ing idea means noth­ing, that every­one has fleet­ing moments of dark­ness, but the weight of it remains, heavy and unre­lent­ing.

The mar­quee, once so full of life, now feels like a wait­ing room for some­thing inevitable, some­thing unseen yet unde­ni­ably present. The whis­pered con­ver­sa­tions around her are sub­dued, punc­tu­at­ed by the occa­sion­al glance toward the entrance, as though expect­ing anoth­er announce­ment, anoth­er rev­e­la­tion. Olivia press­es her hands togeth­er to stop them from trem­bling, ground­ing her­self in the sen­sa­tion of her fin­gers against her palms, in the phys­i­cal proof that she is still here, still real, still sep­a­rate from the dark­ness she fears might exist with­in her.

As the min­utes pass, the weight in her chest does not lessen. Instead, it set­tles deep­er, embed­ding itself into her thoughts, shap­ing the way she sees the events of the night. She knows the truth—that she did noth­ing wrong, that thoughts are not actions, that fear is not guilt—but the uncer­tain­ty remains, whis­per­ing ques­tions she can­not yet answer.

Even as the mar­quee remains filled with peo­ple, Olivia has nev­er felt more alone. The island, the tragedy, the qui­et ter­ror in her own mind—they are all wrapped around her, bind­ing her to a moment that she can­not yet escape. And as she sits in the silence, unable to find com­fort in the pres­ence of oth­ers, she begins to won­der if she will ever tru­ly be free of it, or if this moment will linger with­in her for­ev­er.