💔I BORROWED A WEDDING DRESS… AND I FOUND A LETTER IN THE LINING😳
The day I tried on that wedding dress, I swear I felt something strange.
Not fear.
Not beauty.
Alone… heaviness.
But I played it down.
After all, it was borrowed. From a vintage boutique downtown. The woman said it had only been used once, twenty years ago. Cleaned. Preserved. Intact.
I didn’t care about any of that. I was happy to finally be able to afford something that didn’t seem cheap.
I took it home.
I hung it up carefully.
And every night before my wedding, I stared at him. I dreamed of my day. The corridor. Music. Man.
She was in love.
Deeply.
Stupid.
Young.
But the night before my wedding, while I was steaming the dress and checking for wrinkles… I felt a pull. Inside the bottom lining, near the hem, was something oddly sewn. A lump. Small. Flat.
Curious, I picked up a needle.
I opened it carefully.
And inside…
A note.
Old. Colorless. But the ink was still visible.
> “IF YOU’RE READING THIS, PLEASE DON’T MARRY HIM. I BEG YOU. IT’S DANGEROUS. I ESCAPED BECAUSE OF THE GOALS. — M.”
My dress fell off.
I literally dropped it.
My heart raced.
I turned the note over.
There was more.
> “IF HE GAVE YOU THIS DRESS, IT’S BECAUSE HE’S DONE IT BEFORE.”
But he didn’t.
I bought it in a boutique.
Truth?
Or did he suggest the place?
I couldn’t remember it anymore. Suddenly, everything became a blur.
I picked up my phone. I searched for the online store. There was no website.
How strange.
I checked the address. It didn’t exist on Google Maps.
Even weirder.
I drove there.
That night.
My wedding was tomorrow, but I couldn’t sleep. I needed answers.
And when did I arrive?
He had disappeared.
Closed.
Empty windows.
Dust.
No sign of the old woman. No trace that it had been open.
I knocked on the door of the next-door neighbor.
A young man with sleepy eyes opened it.
> “Hello… Sorry for the inconvenience. Do you know the boutique that was here?”
He frowned.
> “¿Boutique?”
> “Yes… a vintage bridal shop. It’s from a woman…”
He shook his head.
> “Madam… This store has been closed for almost twenty years.”
I was paralyzed.
> “But… I just bought a dress from there. Days ago.”
Left.
He looked me up and down. Then he whispered:
> “You’re the third woman in five years to ask me.”
> My blood froze.
> “What happened to the others?”
He shrugged.
> “One canceled her wedding and disappeared.”
> “The other… he kept going.”
> “The last I heard, he disappeared on his honeymoon.”
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. Nor the store. Nor 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 this note was no coincidence.
That dress was no coincidence.
That tomorrow?
It could be my last day alive.
💔I BORROWED A WEDDING DRESS… AND I FOUND A LETTER IN THE LINING (EPISODE 2)
I woke up in silence.
Not the peaceful kind.
The kind that feels… strange. As if something is holding its breath.
I sat up in bed, my hair tangled and my heart pounding from a dream I didn’t remember, only the feeling it left: cold. Stained.
The note was still on the bedside table.
Crushed. Wrinkled. But it was still there.
> “IF HE GAVE YOU THIS DRESS, HE’S DONE IT BEFORE.”
I held it as if it were made of glass.
I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t want to believe that he, the man I was marrying, could have secrets so deep as 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 slightly of lavender and… anything else. Weak. Rusty.
I thought it was old perfume.
Now, she wasn’t sure it wasn’t old blood.
I needed answers. And I couldn’t ask him. Not yet. Not without evidence.
So I drove.
Still in his pajamas. The hair up. No makeup. Only fear.
The store was just ten minutes from the hotel. A neighborhood store wedged between a beauty salon and a second-hand bookstore. It was called “Second Chances”.
He did not remember the name of the receipt.
I pushed the door open.
The doorbell did not ring.
Because there was no bell.
There was not… nothing.
Nor dresses.
Nor coat racks.
Nor a counter.
Just an empty room with dusty tiles and a broken mirror leaning against the back wall.
Empty.
Abandoned.
As if it had been like this for years.
I went back out, 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 hard.
> “Are you sure?”
> “I live upstairs. I’ve never seen it open.”
My breath was short.
I walked back to my car with trembling hands.
If the store didn’t exist… where did I get the dress?
And who, who, left that note inside?
I didn’t go to the hotel. I couldn’t.
Instead, I went to my aunt’s house.
It’s quiet. Knew. He’s seen too much in his life to be surprised.
When I walked in with the dress box in my hand, she didn’t say anything.
He simply pointed to the kitchen and put tea.
Then I showed him the note.
And I told him everything. When I finished, he leaned back in his chair. The lost look.
> “This seems like something that happened to someone I knew. A long time ago.”
> “Who?”
> “His name was Morayo. She also wore a second-hand dress on her wedding day. From a store that wasn’t really a store.”
> “What happened to him?”
> “The same thing you fear.”
> “She married the wrong man.”
> “And the dress tried to warn her.”
I stared at her.
> “Are you saying the dress is… damn it?”
He did not answer directly.
Instead, he got up.
> “Go home. Burn the note. Leave the dress. Don’t wear it.”
But I didn’t do any of that.
Because that night, when she picked up the dress box again…
It was already open.
And, carefully placed on top of the folded dress…
There was another note.
Smaller.
New lyrics. Just five words:
> “You have seven days left.”
My heart stopped.
She wasn’t even married.
I BORROWED A WEDDING DRESS… AND I FOUND A LETTER IN THE LINING (EPISODE 3)
I stared at the note. Just five words:
> “You have seven days left.”
I was neatly folded over the very dress I had tried so hard to forget. The one I rented in a small shop hidden between two old buildings. The store that no longer existed. Or that perhaps never existed.
My fingers trembled as I picked it up. Another letter. Neater. Firmer. Less frenetic than the first. But it didn’t matter. It felt just as heavy. Just as wrong.
Seven days for what?
He didn’t believe in curses. Not really. And yet, fear has a way of making even the most rational person start believing in irrational things.
I called the number on the rental receipt for the dress again. He still had no answer. She was still dead.
I told myself that it was just someone playing a practical joke on me. Maybe someone in the store found out I was getting married. Maybe they wanted to scare me. Maybe it was nothing.
But I didn’t feel it like anything.
I didn’t go to work the next day. Instead, I spent the morning scouring the internet, trying to find some trace of a boutique called “Second Chances.” Business listings, Facebook pages, archived Yelp reviews… Nothing. It was as if the place had disappeared from the face of the earth.
Or worse. As if I had never been there.
By noon, she was exhausted.
That’s when Phola called.
My best friend. My voice of reason.
> “You sound like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said. “What happened now?”
I told him everything.
The first note. The second. The empty store. The man outside who swore that it had been closed for years.
She was silent for a moment. Then:
> “Are you sure you’re not just… Overwhelmed? In other words, the stress of the wedding is real. Maybe your mind is playing tricks on you.”
He didn’t blame her. Maybe it did sound crazy.
But that did not explain the notes.
He did not explain about the closed store.
And I couldn’t explain why I had that deep, nagging feeling in my stomach that something in the dress wasn’t just wrong… but it was dangerous.
That night, I took the dress out again. I spread it carefully on the bed. The fabric was still beautiful. Delicate. Not a single thread out of place.
I ran my hands through the seams. Nothing.
Then the lining.
And then I felt it.
A small bulge near the hem. I took a few small nail scissors and made a small cut.
Inside, tucked between layers of fabric, was something wrapped in plastic.
A photograph.
It was faded, old, slightly broken at the edges. But I recognized the smile. The same smile that greeted me the first time I walked into that “store.”
It was the woman who gave me the dress. Only younger. Standing next to another woman in the same dress.
And written on the back?
> “She used it too. 1997”.
No names. Unaddressed. Only one year.
I lay down in bed, my heart racing. What did it mean?
Why hide a photo?
And most importantly… where were those women now?
I picked up my phone. I did a reverse image search. Nothing.
But something on the second woman’s face… it looked familiar.
He wasn’t someone I knew. But someone who had seen.
Somewhere.
And then I understood.
The old obituary section in the archives. I had seen her there.
He had died in 1997.
Cause of death?
“Unexplained accident.”
I dropped the phone again. This was not a ghost story. This was something else. But I wasn’t going to give up.
I wouldn’t give up.
Not without answers.💔✅
💔I BORROWED A WEDDING DRESS… AND I FOUND A LETTER IN THE LINING (EPISODE 4)
I didn’t sleep that night.
The second note was in my palm, almost hot from the time I had had it. I read the words over and over again.
“You have seven days left.”
For what?✅
Was it a joke? A scare? Or some cruel marketing strategy of a failed bridal shop?
Whatever it was, it worked. My thoughts were spinning like a broken carousel.
In the morning, my eyes were swollen from lack of sleep. My fiancé, Dayo, called. Twice.
I didn’t answer.
I needed space. Answers. And maybe a little courage.
I went back to the street where I found the dress shop. I checked every corner, every alley, every back door. Nothing. The name of the store, “Second Chances,” did not appear online. It had no website. He had no social networks. I didn’t have the receipt in my bag.
It was as if I had imagined everything.
But the dress was real.
Also the notes.
I sat in the car, frustrated. Then I remembered the name my aunt had mentioned:
Morayo.
It was not common.
I searched online. I added terms like “wedding,” “second-hand dress,” and “Lagos.”
At first, nothing.
Then, a forum post caught my eye:
“Bride in vintage dress – Disappeared 48 hours after wedding.”
It was a comment thread on an old Reddit-like platform. Buried.
I clicked.
And there it was.
A photo. Morayo. Smiling. From the hand of a man who seemed to me… familiar. But I couldn’t identify him. The comments were full of speculation: reticence, kidnapping, voluntary escape. One mentioned a bridal shop with no official name.
“It was enough to know where he was,” someone wrote. “The lady who ran it was older. Discreet. He said that every dress finds its owner.”
That’s what the woman who gave me mine said.
The more I sailed, the more disgusted I felt.
It could not be a coincidence.
I wrote to Dayo:
> We have to talk. But not about the wedding.
He replied instantly:
> Are you okay?
> Where are you?
I ignored the second message. Instead, I went to my friend Zainab’s apartment.
He opened the door, looked at me, and said,
> “You found another note, didn’t you?”
I nodded.
We sat in his room, with the box of dresses between us. He was silent as he told her everything. The notes. The empty store. Morayo. He frowned and asked,
> “Have you looked with a fabric specialist? Perhaps someone can trace where the dress was originally made. It could get us somewhere.”
It was not a bad idea.
We called one.
We told him we were film students and were researching vintage bridal designs. He agreed to stay.
> When he saw the dress, he was stunned.
> “It’s hand-sewn. From the end of the 80s. Possibly custom-made. But the lining?”
He turned it over.
> “This is not original. Someone upset him. See this seam? It was done later. More sloppy.”
I bowed.
> “Can you see what was removed?”
He paused. He ran a gloved hand through the seam.
> “There was something rectangular here. Padded. Maybe a hidden pocket?”
My skin crawled.
> “A bagthe hidden?”
> “Can we open it?”
> “Not without damaging the integrity of the dress. I advise against it.” I thanked him. I took the dress. And I didn’t listen to him.
That night, at Zainab’s kitchen table, I used her sewing box. My fingers were shaking, but I managed to undo the stitches.
Between layers of silk and cotton was a small black velvet bag.
Inside?
A ring.
Simple. Silver. But recorded.
Two initials: D.O.
My heart sank.
Dayo’s initials.
I almost dropped my ring.
> “It can’t be,” Zainab whispered. “Did he give you the dress?”
I shook my head.
> “No. I rented it. He doesn’t even know where. I chose it alone. He said he trusted my taste.”
But now she wasn’t so sure.
Was it confidence?
Or strategy?
I needed answers.
De Dayo.
I drove to his house. The dress, still in the box, in the passenger seat. The velvet bag in my bag. When he opened the door, his face softened.
> “You finally came. I was worried.”
I went in.
> “I need to ask you something. And I need you to be sincere.”
Assented.
I lifted the ring.
> “Do you know this?”
His eyes widened.
He did not recognize him.
With panic.
> “Where did you get it?”
> “Answer the question, Dayo.”
Hesitated.
Then he looked at me.
> “You shouldn’t have found it.”
My legs faltered.
> “So it’s yours?”
> “It was. A long time ago. Before you. Before anything else.”
> “Then why did they sew it to the lining of my wedding dress?”
She ran a hand through her hair.
> “I can explain it. But not here. Not now. Please… wait.”
I didn’t wait.
I left. And as I got into the car, my phone vibrated.
An anonymous message.
Just one sentence:
“Don’t let me put that ring on you.”
💔I BORROWED A WEDDING DRESS… AND I FOUND A LETTER IN THE LINING (EPISODE 5)
I didn’t drive home.
I didn’t even know where I was going.
I just kept driving.
The anonymous message was still on my screen, glowing in the darkness of the car as if breathing.
“Don’t let me put that ring on you.”
I read it over and over again as if it suddenly made sense, as if it came with a voice explaining why.
Why Dayo’s old ring was hidden in the lining of my wedding dress.
Why that warning came right after he begged me to wait.
Wait what?
That their lies would be matched with my truth?
I pulled into an empty parking lot near the Third Continent Bridge and turned off the engine.
The silence was dense.
Of that heaviness that oppresses your chest.
I opened the velvet bag again and stared at the ring. It seemed harmless. Simple. A silver band with “D.O.” engraved on the inside with faded writing.
But it felt… poisonous.
I called Zainab.
He answered the second bell.
> “Tell me you’re not with him.”
> “I left. I couldn’t stay.”
> “Come back. Don’t sleep alone tonight.”
> “I’m not going to sleep,” I whispered. “I don’t think I can.”
I got to his house in less than twenty minutes. She opened the door wrapped in her dressing gown, without makeup, her hair pulled back in a disheveled bun. His face was tense with worry.
I dropped the box on the floor and slumped on his couch.
> “I don’t even know who my fiancé was,” I said.
He sat down next to me, shrugging his legs.
> “Do you think he put the dress on?”
> “I don’t know. But someone did. Someone wanted me to find this.” I threw the bag on the coffee table as if it were burning the palm of my hand.
Zainab leaned forward.
> “Have you checked the ring carefully? Have you really looked at it?”
I blinked.
No. He hadn’t.
We took his phone and used the flashlight to examine every inch. And there, under the initials, was something I hadn’t noticed before.
Something almost invisible.
Engraved in tiny, faded letters as if they don’t want to be found.
A date.
07-07-2018.
Five years ago.
My mind went blank. Then, quickly. Thinking about possibilities.
Five years ago, Dayo and I didn’t even go out.
I opened my phone and googled the date.
Nothing.
No news. No report. Just a small local blog from 2018. Buried deep inside.
A wedding announcement. “Morayo and David Oluwaseun get married in a discreet Ikoyi ceremony.”
I got a lump in my throat.
D.O.
David Oluwaseun.
Dayo’s full name.
I looked at the screen as if it was going to change.
Zainab leaned over my shoulder and read it too.
> “Did Dayo marry someone named Morayo five years ago?”
> “No. No, it has to be a coincidence. Right?”
But my heart didn’t believe me.
The same Morayo who disappeared 48 hours after her wedding?✅
The same dress? The same store?
The same initials inside the same ring sewn into the same dress I borrowed?
Suddenly I felt bad.
Zainab leaned back in her seat, her eyes wide open.
> “Did he ever tell you if he had been married before?”
> “Never. He told me that he had never had a serious relationship with anyone before me.” > “That’s not just a lie. It’s a life he hid.”
The next morning, I called him.
I didn’t even greet him.
> “Your full name is David Oluwaseun, right?”
He was silent.
> “You married Morayo, didn’t you?”
Still nothing.
> “Say something, Dayo.”
> “How did you find out?”
That was it.
No denial. No confusion. Alone… defeat.
> “Why didn’t you tell me?”
> “Because it was supposed to be over. He’s gone. Disappeared. Everyone thought he had escaped.”
> “And the ring?”
> “I never found him after he left. I thought he was lost.”
> “So it magically appeared in my wedding dress?”
Sighed. > “Look, I can’t explain everything over the phone. But I didn’t say it. I swear.”
> “Someone did it.”
> “Then they might want to hurt you. Or me. I don’t know. But please… Don’t dig into this. It’s dangerous.”
I laughed. Drought. Bitterly.
> “You lied to me. Above all. And now you want me to trust you?”
Now he sounded desperate.
> “Morayo… He was not who I thought he was. I made a mistake in marrying her. And I thought I could start from scratch with you.”
> “You didn’t start from scratch. You started with your secrets.”
> “I still love you.”
Hung.
Zainab and I sat at her desk later that night. We don’t talk much. We just looked at the ring, the dress, and a chalkboard we’d pulled out of her old office supplies. Above, I wrote:
WHO LEFT THE NOTES?
Then, underneath:
Morayo?
Someone who knew her?
Someone who hates Dayo?
Someone trying to warn me?
Then, I circled a word in red:
Why now?
Three days to the wedding.
She hadn’t returned the dress. Not because I had forgotten it. Not because I wanted to use it. But because I needed answers.
The second note was folded inside my Bible.
> “You have seven days left.”
Seven days for what? I wondered…
Because something told me that the dress didn’t want me to leave. Not without finishing the story that had begun with me.
That night, I hung it on my bedroom door.
He looked at me as if he was waiting.
And I said out loud:
“If you want something from me, you better talk now. Because after Saturday, you’re going to get into quite a bit of trouble.”
I laughed nervously.
But then… The light in my room flickered.
Once.
Twice.
And when I went back to the door…
The dress was gone.
Yelled.
That night, I dreamed of a wedding.
Not mine.
That of Morayo.
She was standing under a canopy of flowers, in the dress I now had. His smile was wide. But his eyes… Terrified.
He looked past the guests and looked directly at me.
And he whispered one word:
> “Run.”
I woke up drenched in sweat, my pillow soaked, my heart beating like an alarm drum.
My phone was flashing.
A new anonymous message.
This time, a photo.
Blurred. Taken from behind a curtain or a half-open door.
A woman. In white. Lying on the ground. With my eyes closed. A single text underneath: “He didn’t listen to me.”
Final Part: “After the Rain”
On the morning of the wedding, Elena did not wear the cursed dress.
Instead of white lace, she chose a sober, ivory-colored, unadorned outfit. In his inner pocket he carried Isabel’s letter, now crumpled, wet with the dried tears of several nights.
She arrived alone at the church. The rain was falling furiously, as if the sky itself was trying to warn him once more.
Adrián was waiting for her at the altar. He smiled as always: charming, perfect… and now, for Elena, absolutely sinister.
But Elena did not walk towards him. He walked to the priest’s microphone.
“Before we begin this ceremony,” he said, his voice firm, “I want to share something. Not only with Adrián… but with all of you.
A murmur ran through the church. Adrian’s mother turned pale. The sister looked down.
Elena took out the letter. He read it aloud, word for word.
“If you’re reading this, it’s because someone else is going to walk down the aisle with him. Please run away before it’s too late…”
The silence became suffocating.
“This letter was written by Isabel, the woman Adrian was going to marry before me. She disappeared weeks before her wedding. He never appeared. But her dress… its history… They found me.
Adrián took a step forward. His eyes no longer feigned sweetness.
“What are you implying, Elena?”
She looked at him, no longer afraid.
“I’m saying I won’t be next.
A man in the audience stood up. He was a retired detective. He had followed Isabel’s case closely for years. Hearing the name, he had felt a chill. And now, with that letter in the hands of a new fiancée… everything fell into place.
Minutes later, the police entered the church. Elena had sent copies of the letter, photo, and documents at dawn.
Adrián was arrested.
And the rain, which had not ceased for days, stopped just as they were taking him out in handcuffs.
**
Weeks later, Elena visited the unmarked tomb by the lake where Elizabeth’s ring was found. He nailed a small wooden cross, with a plaque that read:
“ISABEL — YOUR VOICE WAS NOT LOST. THANK YOU FOR SAVING ME.”
**
Months passed. Elena returned to the boutique where it all began. The old woman, with tears in her eyes, hugged her without saying a word.
And as she came out, as the sun filtered through the clouds for the first time in a long time, Elena took a deep breath.
Free. Hurrah.
After the rain…
At last there was light.
