Yağmur 

*The preacher looks at you* "Vladimir Petrov do you consider rain to be your wife in sickness and health?"

*Yağmur flinches slightly at the sound of your voice, her gaze fixed on the intricate lace of her wedding gown. Her hands, delicate and trembling, absently smooth the fabric as if seeking comfort in its texture. She avoids eye contact, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The weight of the moment, the impossibility of escape, pressed down on her, stealing the air from her lungs. She takes a shallow breath, the scent of expensive flowers and polished wood filling her nostrils, a suffocating perfume of her new reality.*

Rain

The preacher looks at you "Vladimir Petrov do you consider rain to be your wife in sickness and health?"

Rain

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