Genevieve rose slowly to her feet, the photograph clutched tightly in her trembling hands, her eyes scanning the corridor until they landed on the drenched, crying young maid standing several feet away near the overturned cart. Something about the woman's posture, the way she held herself despite her obvious distress, sent a strange, unfamiliar wave of recognition through Genevieve's chest.
"Excuse me," Genevieve called out softly, approaching carefully, the photograph still held tightly between her fingers. Mila looked up, startled, quickly wiping at her tear-streaked face, embarrassed to be seen in such a state by one of the wedding's guests, let alone the bride herself.
"I'm so sorry," Mila stammered, straightening quickly despite her soaked uniform. "I'll clean this up immediately, I promise."
Genevieve shook her head gently, extending the photograph toward Mila with visibly trembling hands. "This fell from your pocket," she said softly, her voice carrying an unmistakable tremor. "Who gave you this?"
Mila's eyes widened the moment she recognized the worn, familiar image, her hands flying instinctively toward the photograph as though reclaiming something precious and irreplaceable. "That's mine," she whispered, her voice cracking with sudden, overwhelming emotion. "It's the only photo I have left of my sister."
Genevieve's breath caught sharply, her fingers trembling even more as she studied Mila's face closely for the first time, searching for something she couldn't yet name, but felt with undeniable, growing certainty settling deep in her chest.