💔 I BORROWED A WEDDING DRESS… AND FOUND A LETTER IN THE LINING 😳

The day I tried on that wedding dress, I swear I felt something strange.

Not fear.

Not beauty.

Just… heaviness.

But I brushed it off.

After all, it was borrowed. From a vintage boutique downtown. The woman said it had only been worn once, twenty years ago. Cleaned. Preserved. Untouched.

I didn’t care about any of that. I was happy to finally be able to afford something that didn’t look cheap.

I took it home.

I hung it up carefully.

And every night before my wedding, I stared at it. I dreamed of my day. The aisle. The music. The man.

I was in love.

Deeply.

Stupid.

Young.

But the night before my wedding, as I steamed the dress and checked it for wrinkles… I felt a tug. Inside the bottom lining, near the hem, there was something strangely sewn. A bulge. Small. Flat.

Curious, I picked up a needle.

I carefully opened it.

And inside…

A note.

Old. Faded. But the ink was still visible.

“IF YOU’RE READING THIS, PLEASE DON’T MARRY HIM. I BEG YOU. HE’S DANGEROUS. I RAN AWAY FOR SO MANY. — M.”

The dress fell off.

I literally dropped it.

My heart raced.

I turned the note over.

There was more.

“IF HE GAVE YOU THIS DRESS, HE’S DONE IT BEFORE.”

But he didn’t.

I bought it at a boutique.

Right?

Or did he suggest the place?

I couldn’t remember anymore. Suddenly, everything went blurry.

I grabbed my phone. I searched for the store online. There was no website.

How strange.

I checked the address. It didn’t exist on Google Maps.

Even stranger.

I drove there.

That night.

My wedding was tomorrow, but I couldn’t sleep. I needed answers.

And when did I get there?

It was gone.

Closed.

Empty windows.

Dust.

No sign of the old woman. No sign that it had even been open.

I knocked on the next-door neighbor’s door.

A sleepy-eyed young man opened it.

“Hi… Sorry to bother you. Do you know the boutique that used to be here?”

He frowned.

“Boutique?”

“Yes… a vintage bridal shop. It’s owned by a woman…”

He shook his head.

“Ma’am… this store has been closed for almost twenty years.”

I froze.

“But… I just bought a dress from there. Days ago.”

He left.

He looked me up and down. Then he whispered:

“You’re the third woman in five years to ask me that.”

My blood ran cold.

“What happened to the others?”

He shrugged.

“One called off her wedding and disappeared.”

“The other… moved on.”

“Last I heard, she disappeared on her honeymoon.”

I ran.

I went back to the car.

I was silent for twenty minutes.

Then I called him, my fiancé.

I didn’t mention the note. Or the store. Or the neighbor.

I just asked:

“Where did you say you were before you met me?”

There was a pause.

Then he said:

“Why are you asking me that now?”

And I knew.

I knew that note wasn’t a coincidence.

That dress wasn’t a coincidence.

That morning?

It could be my last day alive.

💔 I BORROWED A WEDDING DRESS… AND FOUND A LETTER IN THE LINING (EPISODE 2)
I woke up quietly.
Not the peaceful kind.
The kind that feels… strange. Like something was holding its breath.
I sat up in bed, my hair tangled and my heart pounding from a dream I couldn’t remember, only the feeling it left: cold. Stained.
The note was still on the nightstand.
Crushed. Crumpled. But it was still there.

“IF HE GAVE YOU THIS DRESS, HE’S DONE IT BEFORE.”
I held it like it was glass.
I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t want to believe that he, the man I was marrying, could have secrets deep enough to rot silk.
But I couldn’t ignore it anymore either.
The dress was back in its box. Ivory, vintage, hand-embroidered. It still smelled faintly of lavender and… something else. Faint. Rusty.
I thought it was old perfume.
Now, I wasn’t sure it wasn’t old blood.
I needed answers. And I couldn’t ask him. Not yet. Not without proof.
So I drove.
Still in pajamas. Hair up. No makeup. Just fear.
The store was barely ten minutes from the hotel. A neighborhood shop wedged between a beauty salon and a used bookstore. It was called “Second Chances.”
I couldn’t remember the name on the receipt.
I pushed open the door.
The doorbell didn’t ring.
Because there was no doorbell.
There was… nothing.
No dresses.
No coat racks.
No counter.
Just an empty room with dusty tiles and a broken mirror leaning against the back wall.
Empty.
Abandoned.
As if it had been that way for years.
I went back outside, confused. A man sweeping the sidewalk next door looked up.
“Looking for something?”
“The dress shop. It was here. Two days ago.”
He frowned.
“That place has been closed since 2019.”
I swallowed.

“Are you sure?”
“I live upstairs. I’ve never seen it open.”
My breath caught in my throat.
I walked back to my car, my hands shaking.
If the shop didn’t exist… where did I get the dress?
And who, who, left that