I BORROWED A WEDDING DRESS⦠AND I FOUND A LETTER IN THE LINING

I BORROWED A WEDDING DRESS⦠AND I FOUND A LETTER IN THE LINING
šI BORROWED A WEDDING DRESS⦠AND I FOUND A LETTER IN THE LININGš³
The day I tried on that wedding dress, I swear I felt something strange.
Not fear.
Not beauty.
Alone⦠heaviness.
But I played it down.
After all, it was borrowed. From a vintage boutique downtown. The woman said it had only been used once, twenty years ago. Cleaned. Preserved. Intact.
I didnāt care about any of that. I was happy to finally be able to afford something that didnāt seem cheap.
I took it home.
I hung it up carefully.
And every night before my wedding, I stared at him. I dreamed of my day. The corridor. Music. Man.
She was in love.
Deeply.
Stupid.
Young.
But the night before my wedding, while I was steaming the dress and checking for wrinkles⦠I felt a pull. Inside the bottom lining, near the hem, was something oddly sewn. A lump. Small. Flat.
Curious, I picked up a needle.
I opened it carefully.
And insideā¦
A note.
Old. Colorless. But the ink was still visible.
> āIF YOUāRE READING THIS, PLEASE DONāT MARRY HIM. I BEG YOU. ITāS DANGEROUS. I ESCAPED BECAUSE OF THE GOALS. ā M.ā
My dress fell off.
I literally dropped it.
My heart raced.
I turned the note over.
There was more.
> āIF HE GAVE YOU THIS DRESS, ITāS BECAUSE HEāS DONE IT BEFORE.ā
But he didnāt.
I bought it in a boutique.
Truth?
Or did he suggest the place?
I couldnāt remember it anymore. Suddenly, everything became a blur.
I picked up my phone. I searched for the online store. There was no website.
How strange.
I checked the address. It didnāt exist on Google Maps.
Even weirder.
I drove there.
That night.
My wedding was tomorrow, but I couldnāt sleep. I needed answers.
And when did I arrive?
He had disappeared.
Closed.
Empty windows.
Dust.
No sign of the old woman. No trace that it had been open.
I knocked on the door of the next-door neighbor.
A young man with sleepy eyes opened it.
> āHello⦠Sorry for the inconvenience. Do you know the boutique that was here?ā
He frowned.
> āĀæBoutique?ā
> āYes⦠a vintage bridal shop. Itās from a womanā¦ā
He shook his head.
> āMadam⦠This store has been closed for almost twenty years.ā
I was paralyzed.
> āBut⦠I just bought a dress from there. Days ago.ā
Left.
He looked me up and down. Then he whispered:
> āYouāre the third woman in five years to ask me.ā
> My blood froze.
> āWhat happened to the others?ā
He shrugged.
> āOne canceled her wedding and disappeared.ā
> āThe other⦠he kept going.ā
> āThe last I heard, he disappeared on his honeymoon.ā
Ran.
I went back to the car.
I was silent for twenty minutes.
Then I called him, my fiancƩ.
I didnāt mention the note. Nor the store. Nor the neighbor.
I just asked:
> āWhere did you say you were before you met me?ā
There was a pause.
Then he said:
> āWhy are you asking me that now?ā
And I knew.
I knew that this note was no coincidence.
That dress was no coincidence.
That tomorrow?
It could be my last day alive.
šI BORROWED A WEDDING DRESS⦠AND I FOUND A LETTER IN THE LINING (EPISODE 2)
I woke up in silence.
Not the peaceful kind.
The kind that feels⦠strange. As if something is holding its breath.
I sat up in bed, my hair tangled and my heart pounding from a dream I didnāt remember, only the feeling it left: cold. Stained.
The note was still on the bedside table.
Crushed. Wrinkled. But it was still there.
> āIF HE GAVE YOU THIS DRESS, HEāS DONE IT BEFORE.ā
I held it as if it were made of glass.
I didnāt want to believe it. I didnāt want to believe that he, the man I was marrying, could have secrets so deep as to rot silk.
But I couldnāt ignore it anymore either.
The dress was back in its box. Ivory, vintage, hand embroidered. It still smelled slightly of lavender and⦠anything else. Weak. Rusty.
I thought it was old perfume.
Now, she wasnāt sure it wasnāt old blood.
I needed answers. And I couldnāt ask him. Not yet. Not without evidence.
So I drove.
Still in his pajamas. The hair up. No makeup. Only fear.
The store was just ten minutes from the hotel. A neighborhood store wedged between a beauty salon and a second-hand bookstore. It was called āSecond Chancesā.
He did not remember the name of the receipt.
I pushed the door open.
The doorbell did not ring.
Because there was no bell.
There was not⦠nothing.
Nor dresses.
Nor coat racks.
Nor a counter.
Just an empty room with dusty tiles and a broken mirror leaning against the back wall.
Empty.
Abandoned.
As if it had been like this for years.
I went back out, confused. A man sweeping the sidewalk next door looked up.
> āLooking for something?ā
> āThe dress shop. It was here. Two days ago.ā
He frowned.
> āThat place has been closed since 2019.ā
I swallowed hard.
> āAre you sure?ā
> āI live upstairs. Iāve never seen it open.ā
My breath was short.
I walked back to my car with trembling hands.
If the store didnāt exist⦠where did I get the dress?
And who, who, left that note inside?
I didnāt go to the hotel. I couldnāt.
Instead, I went to my auntās house.
Itās quiet. Knew. Heās seen too much in his life to be surprised.
When I walked in with the dress box in my hand, she didnāt say anything.
He simply pointed to the kitchen and put tea.
Then I showed him the note.
And I told him everything. When I finished, he leaned back in his chair. The lost look.
> āThis seems like something that happened to someone I knew. A long time ago.ā
> āWho?ā
> āHis name was Morayo. She also wore a second-hand dress on her wedding day. From a store that wasnāt really a store.ā
> āWhat happened to him?ā
> āThe same thing you fear.ā
> āShe married the wrong man.ā
> āAnd the dress tried to warn her.ā
I stared at her.
> āAre you saying the dress is⦠damn it?ā
He did not answer directly.
Instead, he got up.
> āGo home. Burn the note. Leave the dress. Donāt wear it.ā
But I didnāt do any of that.
Because that night, when she picked up the dress box againā¦
It was already open.
And, carefully placed on top of the folded dressā¦
There was another note.
Smaller.
New lyrics. Just five words:
> āYou have seven days left.ā
My heart stopped.
She wasnāt even married.
I BORROWED A WEDDING DRESS⦠AND I FOUND A LETTER IN THE LINING (EPISODE 3)
I stared at the note. Just five words:
> āYou have seven days left.ā
I was neatly folded over the very dress I had tried so hard to forget. The one I rented in a small shop hidden between two old buildings. The store that no longer existed. Or that perhaps never existed.
My fingers trembled as I picked it up. Another letter. Neater. Firmer. Less frenetic than the first. But it didnāt matter. It felt just as heavy. Just as wrong.
Seven days for what?
He didnāt believe in curses. Not really. And yet, fear has a way of making even the most rational person start believing in irrational things.
I called the number on the rental receipt for the dress again. He still had no answer. She was still dead.
I told myself that it was just someone playing a practical joke on me. Maybe someone in the store found out I was getting married. Maybe they wanted to scare me. Maybe it was nothing.
But I didnāt feel it like anything.
I didnāt go to work the next day. Instead, I spent the morning scouring the internet, trying to find some trace of a boutique called āSecond Chances.ā Business listings, Facebook pages, archived Yelp reviews⦠Nothing. It was as if the place had disappeared from the face of the earth.
Or worse. As if I had never been there.
By noon, she was exhausted.
Thatās when Phola called.
My best friend. My voice of reason.
> āYou sound like youāve seen a ghost,ā he said. āWhat happened now?ā
I told him everything.
The first note. The second. The empty store. The man outside who swore that it had been closed for years.
She was silent for a moment. Then:
> āAre you sure youāre not just⦠Overwhelmed? In other words, the stress of the wedding is real. Maybe your mind is playing tricks on you.ā
He didnāt blame her. Maybe it did sound crazy.
But that did not explain the notes.
He did not explain about the closed store.
And I couldnāt explain why I had that deep, nagging feeling in my stomach that something in the dress wasnāt just wrong⦠but it was dangerous.
That night, I took the dress out again. I spread it carefully on the bed. The fabric was still beautiful. Delicate. Not a single thread out of place.
I ran my hands through the seams. Nothing.
Then the lining.
And then I felt it.
A small bulge near the hem. I took a few small nail scissors and made a small cut.
Inside, tucked between layers of fabric, was something wrapped in plastic.
A photograph.
It was faded, old, slightly broken at the edges. But I recognized the smile. The same smile that greeted me the first time I walked into that āstore.ā
It was the woman who gave me the dress. Only younger. Standing next to another woman in the same dress.
And written on the back?
> āShe used it too. 1997ā.
No names. Unaddressed. Only one year.
I lay down in bed, my heart racing. What did it mean?
Why hide a photo?
And most importantly⦠where were those women now?
I picked up my phone. I did a reverse image search. Nothing.
But something on the second womanās face⦠it looked familiar.
He wasnāt someone I knew. But someone who had seen.
Somewhere.
And then I understood.
The old obituary section in the archives. I had seen her there.
He had died in 1997.
Cause of death?
āUnexplained accident.ā
I dropped the phone again. This was not a ghost story. This was something else. But I wasnāt going to give up.
I wouldnāt give up.
Not without answers.šā
šI BORROWED A WEDDING DRESS⦠AND I FOUND A LETTER IN THE LINING (EPISODE 4)
I didnāt sleep that night.
The second note was in my palm, almost hot from the time I had had it. I read the words over and over again.
āYou have seven days left.ā
For what?ā
Was it a joke? A scare? Or some cruel marketing strategy of a failed bridal shop?
Whatever it was, it worked. My thoughts were spinning like a broken carousel.
In the morning, my eyes were swollen from lack of sleep. My fiancƩ, Dayo, called. Twice.
I didnāt answer.
I needed space. Answers. And maybe a little courage.
I went back to the street where I found the dress shop. I checked every corner, every alley, every back door. Nothing. The name of the store, āSecond Chances,ā did not appear online. It had no website. He had no social networks. I didnāt have the receipt in my bag.
It was as if I had imagined everything.
But the dress was real.
Also the notes.
I sat in the car, frustrated. Then I remembered the name my aunt had mentioned:
Morayo.
It was not common.
I searched online. I added terms like āwedding,ā āsecond-hand dress,ā and āLagos.ā
At first, nothing.
Then, a forum post caught my eye:
āBride in vintage dress ā Disappeared 48 hours after wedding.ā
It was a comment thread on an old Reddit-like platform. Buried.
I clicked.
And there it was.
A photo. Morayo. Smiling. From the hand of a man who seemed to me⦠familiar. But I couldnāt identify him. The comments were full of speculation: reticence, kidnapping, voluntary escape. One mentioned a bridal shop with no official name.
āIt was enough to know where he was,ā someone wrote. āThe lady who ran it was older. Discreet. He said that every dress finds its owner.ā
Thatās what the woman who gave me mine said.
The more I sailed, the more disgusted I felt.
It could not be a coincidence.
I wrote to Dayo:
> We have to talk. But not about the wedding.
He replied instantly:
> Are you okay?
> Where are you?
I ignored the second message. Instead, I went to my friend Zainabās apartment.
He opened the door, looked at me, and said,
> āYou found another note, didnāt you?ā
I nodded.
We sat in his room, with the box of dresses between us. He was silent as he told her everything. The notes. The empty store. Morayo. He frowned and asked,
> āHave you looked with a fabric specialist? Perhaps someone can trace where the dress was originally made. It could get us somewhere.ā
It was not a bad idea.
We called one.
We told him we were film students and were researching vintage bridal designs. He agreed to stay.
> When he saw the dress, he was stunned.
> āItās hand-sewn. From the end of the 80s. Possibly custom-made. But the lining?ā
He turned it over.
> āThis is not original. Someone upset him. See this seam? It was done later. More sloppy.ā
I bowed.
> āCan you see what was removed?ā
He paused. He ran a gloved hand through the seam.
> āThere was something rectangular here. Padded. Maybe a hidden pocket?ā
My skin crawled.
> āA bagthe hidden?ā
> āCan we open it?ā
> āNot without damaging the integrity of the dress. I advise against it.ā I thanked him. I took the dress. And I didnāt listen to him.
That night, at Zainabās kitchen table, I used her sewing box. My fingers were shaking, but I managed to undo the stitches.
Between layers of silk and cotton was a small black velvet bag.
Inside?
A ring.
Simple. Silver. But recorded.
Two initials: D.O.
My heart sank.
Dayoās initials.
I almost dropped my ring.
> āIt canāt be,ā Zainab whispered. āDid he give you the dress?ā
I shook my head.
> āNo. I rented it. He doesnāt even know where. I chose it alone. He said he trusted my taste.ā
But now she wasnāt so sure.
Was it confidence?
Or strategy?
I needed answers.
De Dayo.
I drove to his house. The dress, still in the box, in the passenger seat. The velvet bag in my bag. When he opened the door, his face softened.
> āYou finally came. I was worried.ā
I went in.
> āI need to ask you something. And I need you to be sincere.ā
Assented.
I lifted the ring.
> āDo you know this?ā
His eyes widened.
He did not recognize him.
With panic.
> āWhere did you get it?ā
> āAnswer the question, Dayo.ā
Hesitated.
Then he looked at me.
> āYou shouldnāt have found it.ā
My legs faltered.
> āSo itās yours?ā
> āIt was. A long time ago. Before you. Before anything else.ā
> āThen why did they sew it to the lining of my wedding dress?ā
She ran a hand through her hair.
> āI can explain it. But not here. Not now. Please⦠wait.ā
I didnāt wait.
I left. And as I got into the car, my phone vibrated.
An anonymous message.
Just one sentence:
āDonāt let me put that ring on you.ā
šI BORROWED A WEDDING DRESS⦠AND I FOUND A LETTER IN THE LINING (EPISODE 5)
I didnāt drive home.
I didnāt even know where I was going.
I just kept driving.
The anonymous message was still on my screen, glowing in the darkness of the car as if breathing.
āDonāt let me put that ring on you.ā
I read it over and over again as if it suddenly made sense, as if it came with a voice explaining why.
Why Dayoās old ring was hidden in the lining of my wedding dress.
Why that warning came right after he begged me to wait.
Wait what?
That their lies would be matched with my truth?
I pulled into an empty parking lot near the Third Continent Bridge and turned off the engine.
The silence was dense.
Of that heaviness that oppresses your chest.
I opened the velvet bag again and stared at the ring. It seemed harmless. Simple. A silver band with āD.O.ā engraved on the inside with faded writing.
But it felt⦠poisonous.
I called Zainab.
He answered the second bell.
> āTell me youāre not with him.ā
> āI left. I couldnāt stay.ā
> āCome back. Donāt sleep alone tonight.ā
> āIām not going to sleep,ā I whispered. āI donāt think I can.ā
I got to his house in less than twenty minutes. She opened the door wrapped in her dressing gown, without makeup, her hair pulled back in a disheveled bun. His face was tense with worry.
I dropped the box on the floor and slumped on his couch.
> āI donāt even know who my fiancĆ© was,ā I said.
He sat down next to me, shrugging his legs.
> āDo you think he put the dress on?ā
> āI donāt know. But someone did. Someone wanted me to find this.ā I threw the bag on the coffee table as if it were burning the palm of my hand.
Zainab leaned forward.
> āHave you checked the ring carefully? Have you really looked at it?ā
I blinked.
No. He hadnāt.
We took his phone and used the flashlight to examine every inch. And there, under the initials, was something I hadnāt noticed before.
Something almost invisible.
Engraved in tiny, faded letters as if they donāt want to be found.
A date.
07-07-2018.
Five years ago.
My mind went blank. Then, quickly. Thinking about possibilities.
Five years ago, Dayo and I didnāt even go out.
I opened my phone and googled the date.
Nothing.
No news. No report. Just a small local blog from 2018. Buried deep inside.
A wedding announcement. āMorayo and David Oluwaseun get married in a discreet Ikoyi ceremony.ā
I got a lump in my throat.
D.O.
David Oluwaseun.
Dayoās full name.
I looked at the screen as if it was going to change.
Zainab leaned over my shoulder and read it too.
> āDid Dayo marry someone named Morayo five years ago?ā
> āNo. No, it has to be a coincidence. Right?ā
But my heart didnāt believe me.
The same Morayo who disappeared 48 hours after her wedding?ā
The same dress? The same store?
The same initials inside the same ring sewn into the same dress I borrowed?
Suddenly I felt bad.
Zainab leaned back in her seat, her eyes wide open.
> āDid he ever tell you if he had been married before?ā
> āNever. He told me that he had never had a serious relationship with anyone before me.ā > āThatās not just a lie. Itās a life he hid.ā
The next morning, I called him.
I didnāt even greet him.
> āYour full name is David Oluwaseun, right?ā
He was silent.
> āYou married Morayo, didnāt you?ā
Still nothing.
> āSay something, Dayo.ā
> āHow did you find out?ā
That was it.
No denial. No confusion. Alone⦠defeat.
> āWhy didnāt you tell me?ā
> āBecause it was supposed to be over. Heās gone. Disappeared. Everyone thought he had escaped.ā
> āAnd the ring?ā
> āI never found him after he left. I thought he was lost.ā
> āSo it magically appeared in my wedding dress?ā
Sighed. > āLook, I canāt explain everything over the phone. But I didnāt say it. I swear.ā
> āSomeone did it.ā
> āThen they might want to hurt you. Or me. I donāt know. But please⦠Donāt dig into this. Itās dangerous.ā
I laughed. Drought. Bitterly.
> āYou lied to me. Above all. And now you want me to trust you?ā
Now he sounded desperate.
> āMorayo⦠He was not who I thought he was. I made a mistake in marrying her. And I thought I could start from scratch with you.ā
> āYou didnāt start from scratch. You started with your secrets.ā
> āI still love you.ā
Hung.
Zainab and I sat at her desk later that night. We donāt talk much. We just looked at the ring, the dress, and a chalkboard weād pulled out of her old office supplies. Above, I wrote:
WHO LEFT THE NOTES?
Then, underneath:
Morayo?
Someone who knew her?
Someone who hates Dayo?
Someone trying to warn me?
Then, I circled a word in red:
Why now?
Three days to the wedding.
She hadnāt returned the dress. Not because I had forgotten it. Not because I wanted to use it. But because I needed answers.
The second note was folded inside my Bible.
> āYou have seven days left.ā
Seven days for what? I wonderedā¦
Because something told me that the dress didnāt want me to leave. Not without finishing the story that had begun with me.
That night, I hung it on my bedroom door.
He looked at me as if he was waiting.
And I said out loud:
āIf you want something from me, you better talk now. Because after Saturday, youāre going to get into quite a bit of trouble.ā
I laughed nervously.
But then⦠The light in my room flickered.
Once.
Twice.
And when I went back to the doorā¦
The dress was gone.
Yelled.
That night, I dreamed of a wedding.
Not mine.
That of Morayo.
She was standing under a canopy of flowers, in the dress I now had. His smile was wide. But his eyes⦠Terrified.
He looked past the guests and looked directly at me.
And he whispered one word:
> āRun.ā
I woke up drenched in sweat, my pillow soaked, my heart beating like an alarm drum.
My phone was flashing.
A new anonymous message.
This time, a photo.
Blurred. Taken from behind a curtain or a half-open door.
A woman. In white. Lying on the ground. With my eyes closed. A single text underneath: āHe didnāt listen to me.ā
Final Part: āAfter the Rainā
On the morning of the wedding, Elena did not wear the cursed dress.
Instead of white lace, she chose a sober, ivory-colored, unadorned outfit. In his inner pocket he carried Isabelās letter, now crumpled, wet with the dried tears of several nights.
She arrived alone at the church. The rain was falling furiously, as if the sky itself was trying to warn him once more.
AdriÔn was waiting for her at the altar. He smiled as always: charming, perfect⦠and now, for Elena, absolutely sinister.
But Elena did not walk towards him. He walked to the priestās microphone.
āBefore we begin this ceremony,ā he said, his voice firm, āI want to share something. Not only with AdriĆ”n⦠but with all of you.
A murmur ran through the church. Adrianās mother turned pale. The sister looked down.
Elena took out the letter. He read it aloud, word for word.
āIf youāre reading this, itās because someone else is going to walk down the aisle with him. Please run away before itās too lateā¦ā
The silence became suffocating.
āThis letter was written by Isabel, the woman Adrian was going to marry before me. She disappeared weeks before her wedding. He never appeared. But her dress⦠its history⦠They found me.
AdriƔn took a step forward. His eyes no longer feigned sweetness.
āWhat are you implying, Elena?ā
She looked at him, no longer afraid.
āIām saying I wonāt be next.
A man in the audience stood up. He was a retired detective. He had followed Isabelās case closely for years. Hearing the name, he had felt a chill. And now, with that letter in the hands of a new fiancĆ©e⦠everything fell into place.
Minutes later, the police entered the church. Elena had sent copies of the letter, photo, and documents at dawn.
AdriƔn was arrested.
And the rain, which had not ceased for days, stopped just as they were taking him out in handcuffs.
**
Weeks later, Elena visited the unmarked tomb by the lake where Elizabethās ring was found. He nailed a small wooden cross, with a plaque that read:
āISABEL ā YOUR VOICE WAS NOT LOST. THANK YOU FOR SAVING ME.ā
**
Months passed. Elena returned to the boutique where it all began. The old woman, with tears in her eyes, hugged her without saying a word.
And as she came out, as the sun filtered through the clouds for the first time in a long time, Elena took a deep breath.
Free. Hurrah.
After the rainā¦
At last there was light.
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