Before Her Vows

Henry's fingers jittered on the taxi's sticky handle, his cheap watch screaming—thirty minutes till Claire's wedding. Time is running out, his last shot to mend ten years of silence. He saw her tenth birthday again—him stumbling in late, her eyes red, the cake sliced without him. That memory gnawed at him, sharper than the ache in his chest.

"Traffic's a mess," the driver muttered. "Wreck up ahead."

Henry's breath hitched, his heart—six months left, tops—thumping unevenly. He gripped a chipped ballerina figurine in his pocket, Claire's old treasure, cracked the day he walked out.

The taxi jolted still. "Fifteen minutes. You'd better hoof it."

He lurched out, cane-smacking concrete, legs like lead. The church steeple taunted him two blocks off. Sweat burned his eyes as he shuffled, pain clawing his ribs. On the steps, he tripped, gasping—Not now, damn it. Ten minutes.

The doors creaked open, organ music spilling out. Claire stood there in white, twisting her flowers, eyes catching his. They shimmered—tears, maybe anger.

"Dad?" Her voice broke, small and unsure.

"I couldn't miss this," he croaked, holding out the figurine. "I'm sorry, Claire. For everything."
She froze, staring at him, then stepped forward, her hand steadying his shaky arm.

"Walk with me."

They moved down the aisle, his cane tapping, her grip firm. His heart settled just a little. Time hadn't slipped away yet. For once, he was right where she needed him.

Author's notes ▼

Written for the "Daily Flash Fiction Challenge"  March 2nd, 2025, word count before pictures and author's note 299, Prompt "include the line "Time was running out"