The toast had barely started when the groom’s aunt laughed into the microphone. “So… her parents collect trash for a living,” she said, and the room answered her the way weak rooms always do—small laughs, quick glances, people pretending it was “just a joke.” Then the groom’s family began to stand and leave, one after another, as if walking out was their real tradition.
The doors slammed. Silence hit hard. Then an engine rumbled outside—deep, heavy, too close.
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