He hadn’t been to a wedding in years. He wasn’t even dating. But the filename was specific, and curiosity, that old itch, got the better of him. He clicked "Extract."

Elias opened the text document first. It was a list of names and dates, spanning fifty years. At the very bottom was his own name, followed by today’s date and a time: He looked at the clock on his taskbar. 11:38 PM.

He zoomed in on the tuxedo. Pinned to the lapel was a boutonniere made of black roses—and a small, handwritten note that was just barely legible in the pixels.

Behind him, the door to his dark hallway creaked open. There was no one there, but the smell of lilies—the heavy, cloying scent of a funeral—suddenly filled the room.