Long before Emma Hart walked down the aisle in a gown stitched with dreams, she was just a little girl spinning through her parents' flower nursery, pretending to be a bride.
She was ten years old then—barefoot most days, always with a smudge of dirt on her cheek and petals tangled in her hair. While other girls played hopscotch or jumped rope, Emma would gather wildflowers from the fields behind *Taylor's Blooms*, fashioning them into bouquets with twine and hope.
"I'm going to get married one day," she'd tell her mother while arranging peonies in a vase. "And I'll wear white, and carry roses."
Her mother would smile, brushing flour off her hands after baking bread for the shop. "Well, whoever wins your heart better be ready for a lifetime of flowers," she'd say.
But it wasn't just about romance for Emma—it was about promise. About love that lasted. About standing beneath the sky with someone who knew your name, your heart, and your wildest dreams.
Every summer evening, as the sun dipped low and painted the world gold, Emma would sit on the porch swing with her father and make wishes.
"Make a wish, Dad," she'd say, nudging him playfully.
He'd chuckle. "You go first."
So she did.
"I wish to grow up and become a bride," she'd whisper each time, eyes closed tight, fingers crossed.
It became her ritual—a secret prayer carried on the wind, wrapped in the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle.
Years passed. She grew taller, smarter, braver. High school dances came and went, and boys asked her out, but none felt quite right. Not yet.
Then, one spring afternoon during her senior year, everything changed.
She met Asher at the town library, where he was helping re-shelve books as part of his volunteer work. He had kind eyes and a crooked smile, and when he handed her a copy of *Pride and Prejudice*—her favorite—he said, "This book ends with a wedding, you know."
Emma blushed. "I know. That's why I like it."
They talked for hours. About books, about music, about life. And though neither of them knew it yet, they had just planted the seeds of something beautiful.
As the seasons turned, so did their hearts. They fell slowly, quietly, completely. When Asher proposed under the willow tree by the river, Emma didn't cry at first. She just looked at him, stunned and smiling.
"You remembered my favorite place," she whispered.
"I remember everything about you," he said.
When it came time to plan the wedding, Emma didn't hesitate—she wanted it at the nursery, surrounded by the flowers she had loved since childhood.
The ceremony was simple, soft, and full of light. Her bouquet? A mix of gardenias, roses, and wild daisies—the same ones she used to pick as a girl.
And as she walked down the aisle, barefoot beneath her flowing dress, her father beside her, she thought back to those summer nights on the porch swing.
*I wished for this,* she told herself. *And here it is.*
After the vows, after the kiss, after the laughter and dancing beneath strings of lights, Emma found a quiet moment alone near the greenhouse.
She placed her hand on the wooden post, still warm from the sun.
"I did it," she whispered to the wind. "I became a bride."
And somewhere in the rustling leaves, she could almost hear her younger self cheering.
From that day forward, every June, Emma would return to that spot and plant a new rose bush—each one representing another year of love, of marriage, of the dream she once dared to believe in.
And even now, long after she was gone, those roses still bloomed.
Proof that wishes—when made with an open heart—can come true.
Forever.