The cinema was tucked between a shuttered laundromat and a store that sold nothing but white candles. No sign. Just a marquee with missing letters: W—DDING L—ST CINEMA . The door was unlocked.

I watched for what felt like hours. Days. Years. I watched my own future weddings—three of them, each one failing in a different, excruciating way. I watched my parents' wedding, which I'd never seen before. I watched the truth behind their smiles.

She pointed to a single theater. The door was velvet, wine-dark, heavy as a bank vault.

I called it, of course. I'm the kind of person who calls wrong numbers just to hear what happens.