💔I BORROWED A WEDDING DRESS… I FOUND A LETTER IN A LETTER😳
The day I tried on that dress, I swear I felt something different.
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Not fear.
Not beauty.
Alone… heavy.
But I played it.
After all, it was borrowed. From a vintage boutique downtown. The woman said it had only been worn once, twenty years ago. Cleaned. Maintained. Intact.
I didn’t care about any of that. I was happy to finally buy something that didn’t seem cheap.
I took it home.
I took it down carefully.
Every night before my wedding, I looked at her. I dreamed about my day. The hallway. The music. The person.
She was in love.
Deeply.
Stupid.
Child.
But the night before my wedding, as I was steaming the dress and looking for wrinkles … I felt a tug. Inside the bottom lining, near the hem, was a strange stitch. A lump. Small. Flat.
Curious, I took out a needle.
I opened it carefully.
And inside…
A note.
Old. Colorless. But the ink was still visible.
> “IF YOU READ THIS, DO NOT MARRY HER. I AM TALKING TO YOU. THIS IS DANGEROUS. I AM RUNNING OUT OF MY DREAMS. — M.”
My dress fell off.
I literally dropped it.
My heart raced.
I turned back to the note.
There was more.
> “IF HE GAVE YOU THIS DRESS, IT’S BECAUSE HE’S MADE IT BEFORE.”
But he didn’t.
I bought it at a store.
Is that true?
Or did he suggest the place?
I can’t remember. Suddenly everything went blurry.
I took out my phone. I looked up the online store. There was no website.
Strange.
I looked up 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 arrive?
She was gone.
Closed.
Empty windows.
Dust.
No sign of the old woman. No sign of it being opened.
I knocked on my neighbor’s door.
A young man opened it with sleepy eyes.
> “Hello… Sorry for the inconvenience. “Do you know the shop here?”
He frowned.
> “¿Boutique?”
> “Yes… a vintage bridal shop. This is from a woman…”
He shook his head.
> “Madam… This shop has been closed for almost twenty years.”
I was paralyzed.
> “But… I just bought a dress there. A few days ago.”
Left.
He looked me up and down. Then he whispered:
> “You’re the third woman in five years to ask me out.”
> My blood ran cold.
> “What happened to the others?”
He shrugged.
> “One canceled her wedding and disappeared.”
> “The other… she continued.”
> “Last I heard, she disappeared on her honeymoon.”
I ran.
I got back in the car.
I was silent for twenty minutes.
I called him, my boyfriend.
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 now?”
And I know.
I know this letter is not a coincidence.
That dress is not a coincidence.
That tomorrow?
Maybe this will be the last day of my life.
💔I BORROWED A WEDDING DRESS… I FOUND A LETTER IN THE LINING (EPISODE 2)
I woke up in silence.
Not the peaceful kind.
The kind that felt… strange. As if something was holding her breath.
I sat up in bed, my hair a mess and my heart pounding from a dream I couldn’t remember, only the feeling it left behind: cold. Stained.
The letter was still on the bedside table.
Crumpled. Curled. But it was still there.
> “IF HE GAVE YOU THIS DRESS, HE’D 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 married, had secrets so deep that they were rotten silk. But I couldn’t ignore it either. The dress went back into its box. Ivory, vintage, hand-embroidered. It still smelled faintly of lavender and… whatever else. Faint. Rusty. I thought it was old perfume. He wasn’t sure if it wasn’t old blood.
I need answers. And I can’t ask her. Not yet. Not without evidence.
So I drive.
Still in her pajamas. Hair up. No makeup. Just scared.
The store is only ten minutes from the hotel. A neighborhood store wedged between a beauty salon and a second-hand bookstore. It’s called “Second Chances.” She can’t remember the name on the receipt.
I open the door. The doorbell doesn’t ring.
Because there’s no bell.
Nothing… nothing.
No clothes.
No coat racks.
Not a counter.
Just an empty room with dusty tiles and broken glass leaning against the back wall.
Empty.
Abandoned.
It feels like it’s been like this for years.
I go back outside, confused. A man sweeping the sidewalk next to the door looks up.
> “Are you looking for something?”
> “The clothing store. Here it is. Two days ago.”
She 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, hands shaking.
If the store didn’t exist… Where did I get the clothes?
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 was quiet. I knew. She’d seen too much in her life to be surprised.
When I entered the clothing store with the box of clothes in my hand, she didn’t say anything.
She just pointed to the kitchen and put out the tea.
Then I showed her the note.
And I told her everything. When I finished, he leaned back in his chair. The lost look.
> “It seems like something happened to someone I know. It was a long time ago.”
> “Who?”
> “Her name is Morayo. She also wore a second-hand dress on her wedding day. From a store that wasn’t really a store.”
> “What happened to her?”
> “The one you’re afraid of.”
> “She married the wrong man.”
> “And the dress tried to warn her.”
I looked at him.
> “Are you saying that the dress is… cursed?”
He didn’t directly answer.
Instead, he got up.
> “Go home. Burn the letter. Leave the dress. Don’t wear it.”
But I didn’t do any of that.
Because that night, when he picked up the dress box again…
It was open.
And, carefully placed on top of the folded dress…
There was another note.
Smaller.
New lyrics. Just five words:
> “You have seven days.” My heart stopped. He wasn’t even married.
I BORROWED A WEDDING DRESS… I FOUND A LETTER IN THE LINEN (EPISODE 3)
AS I STARED AT THE LETTER. Just five words:
> “You have seven days.”
I was neatly folded in the very dress I had tried so hard to forget. The one I rented in a small shop tucked between two old buildings. The shop that no longer existed. Or maybe never existed. My fingers trembled as I picked it up. Another letter. Neat. More solid. Not as crazy as the first. But it didn’t matter. It felt heavy, too. Like it was 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 to believe the most irrational things.
I called the number on the dress rental receipt again. Still no answer. She was still dead.
I told myself, someone was just kidding me. Maybe someone at the store had found out I was getting married. Maybe they were trying to scare me. Maybe nothing.
But I felt nothing.
I didn’t go to work the next day. Instead, I spent the morning carefully scouring the internet, trying to find some trace of a boutique called “Second Chance.” Business listings, Facebook pages, archived Yelp reviews… Nothing. It was as if the place had vanished from the face of the earth.
Or worse. It was as if I had never been there.
By noon, she was exhausted.
Then Phol called.
My best friend. My voice of reason.
> “It’s like you’re the one who’s in charge. I saw a ghost,” he said. “What happened today?”
I told him everything.
The first note. The second. The empty store. And, I swear to you, it’s worth what you’re paying for :).
He was silent for a moment. Then:
> “Are you sure you’re not just… Overwhelmed? In other words, the stress of marriage is real. Your mind might be playing tricks on you.”
He didn’t blame her. Maybe it sounded crazy.
But that didn’t explain the notes.
He didn’t explain the closed store.
And I couldn’t explain why I felt this deep, nagging feeling that something was wrong with my dress… but it was dangerous.
That night, I took off the dress again. I carefully laid it on the bed. The fabric was still beautiful. Delicate. Not a single thread out of place.
I put my hands in the seams. Nothing.
Then the lining.
And then I felt it.
A small bulge near the hem. I took out some small nail clippers and made a small cut.
Inside, hidden between the layers of fabric, was something wrapped in plastic.
A picture.
It was faded, old, slightly torn around the edges. But I recognized the smile. The same smile I had felt when I first entered that “mall.”
The woman who had given me the dress. Only younger. Standing next to another woman wearing the same dress.
And what was written on the back?
> “She used it too. 1997”.
No names. No answers. Only a year. I was lying
in bed, my heart pounding. What did it mean?
Why hide a picture?
And most of all… Where are those women now?
I took out my cell phone. I did a reverse image search. Nothing.
But there was something about the second woman’s face… it looked familiar.
She wasn’t the person I knew. But someone had seen her.
Somewhere.
And then I understood.
The old obituary section in the archives. I saw her there.
She died in 1997.
Cause of death?
“Unexplained accident.”
I hung up the phone again. This wasn’t a ghost story. This was something else. But I wasn’t giving up.
I wasn’t giving up.
Not without answers.💔✅
💔I BORROWED A WEDDING DRESS… I FOUND A LETTER IN THE LINING (EPISODE 4)
I DIDN’T SLEEP THAT NIGHT.
The second note was in my palm, almost warm from the moment I got it. I read the words over and over.
“You’ve got seven more days.”
What for?✅
Was it a joke? A scare? Or some cruel marketing ploy by a failed bridal shop?
Whatever it was, it worked. My mind spun like a broken carousel.
The next morning, my eyes were swollen from lack of sleep. My boyfriend, Dayo, called. Twice.
I didn’t answer.
I needed space. Answers. And maybe a little courage.
I walked back to the street where I had found the dress shop. I looked at every corner, every alley, every back door. Nothing. The name of the store, “Second Chances,” didn’t appear online. It didn’t have a website. It didn’t have a social network. I didn’t have a receipt in my bag.
I thought I had it all figured out.
But the dress was real.
So were the notes.
I sat in the car, feeling sad. Then I remembered the name my aunt had mentioned:
Morayo.
It wasn’t 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… familiar to me. But I couldn’t recognize him. The comments were full of speculation: reluctance, kidnapping, voluntary elopement. One mentioned a bridal shop with no official name.
“Enough to know where she is,” wrote another. “The woman who takes care of her is older. Careful. She said every dress finds its owner.” ‘
That’s what the woman who gave me my money said.
The more I sailed, the more disgusted I became.
This couldn’t be a coincidence. I told Dingdong,
> let’s talk. But not about the wedding.
She immediately replied:
> Are you okay?
> Where are you?
I ignored the second message. Instead, I went to my friend Zainab’s apartment.
She opened the door, looked at me, and said,
> “You saw another letter, didn’t you?”
I nodded.
We sat in her room, with boxes of dresses between us. She was quiet as she told him everything. The notes. The empty store. Morayo. She frowned and asked,
> “Have you talked to a fabric specialist? Maybe someone can trace where the dress was originally made. It could lead us somewhere.”
It wasn’t a bad idea.
We called one.
We told her we were film students and researching vintage bridal designs. She agreed to stay.
> When she saw the dress, she was shocked.
> “It’s hand-sewn. From the late 80s. Possibly custom-made. But the lining?”
She turned it over.
> “It’s not original. Someone got mad at her. Can you see this seam? It was done later. It’s more blurry.”
I bowed.
> “Do you see what’s come off?”
She paused. She inserted a gloved hand into the seam.
> “There’s something rectangular here. Padded. Maybe a hidden pocket?”
My skin crawled.
> “A hidden bag?”
> “Can we open this?”
> “It’s not like you’re losing hope in art. I advise against it.” I thanked her. I took the dress. And I didn’t listen to her.
That night, at Zainab’s kitchen table, I used her sewing box. My fingers were shaking, but I managed to remove the stitches.
Between the 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.
> “I can’t,” Zainab whispered. “Did he give you the dress?”
I shook my head.
> “No. I rented it. He didn’t know where. I picked it out myself. He said he trusted my taste.”
But now he wasn’t so sure.
Was it trust?
Or strategy?
I needed answers.
De Dayo.
I drove to his house. The dress, still in its box, on the passenger seat. The velvet bag in my bag. When he opened the door, his face softened.
> “You’re finally here. I was worried.”
I went inside.
> “I have something to ask you. And I need you to be sincere.”
Agreed.
I held up the ring.
> “Do you know that?”
Her eyes widened.
She didn’t recognize it.
In fear.
> “Where did you get this?”
> “Answer the question, Dayo.”
Hesitating.
Then she looked at me.
> “You shouldn’t have found this.”
My legs were shaking.
> “Is that yours?”
> “That was. A long time ago. Before you. Before anything.”
> “Then why did they sew it into 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. As I got into the car, my cellphone rang.
An anonymous message. Just one sentence:
“Don’t let me put that ring on you.”
💔I BORROWED A WEDDING DRESS… I FOUND A LETTER IN THE LINEN (EPISODE 5)
I CAN’T LEAVE IT HOME. I don’t know where I’m going.
I just kept driving.
The anonymous message was still on my screen, glowing in the darkness of the car as if it were 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 a voice were explaining why.
Why was Dayo’s old ring hidden in the lining of my wedding dress.
Why did that warning come after he had begged me to wait.
Wait what?
That their lies matched my truth?
I pulled into an empty parking lot near the Third Continent Bridge and turned off the engine.
The silence was dense.
With that heaviness that holds your chest.
I opened the velvet bag again and looked at the ring. It seemed harmless. Simple. A silver band with “D.O.” engraved inside in faded writing.
But it felt… poisonous.
I called Zainab.
She answered the second bell.
> “Tell me you’re not with her.”
> “I’m leaving. I can’t stay.”
> “Come back. Don’t sleep alone tonight.”
> “I’m not sleeping,” I whispered. “I don’t think I can.”
Less than twenty minutes later I arrived at her house. She opened the door wrapped in her dressing gown, no makeup, her hair pulled back into a disheveled bun. Her face was tense with worry.
I dropped the box on the floor and collapsed onto her sofa.
> “I don’t know who my boyfriend is either,” I said.
She sat down next to me, holding her legs.
> “Do you think she’s wearing the dress?”
> “I don’t know. But someone did it. Someone wants me to find it.” I threw the bag onto the coffee table as if it were burning the palm of my hand.
Zainab leaned forward.
> “Have you looked at the ring? Have you actually watched it?”
I opened my eyes.
No. He didn’t.
We took his phone and used the flashlight to examine every inch. Beneath the initials, there was something I hadn’t noticed before.
Something barely visible.
Engraved in small, faded letters that seemed to refuse to be found.
A date.
07-07-2018.
Five years ago.
My mind went blank. Then, quickly. Thinking about the possibilities.
Five years ago, Dayo and I weren’t even going out.
I opened my phone and googled the date.
Nothing.
No news. No report. A small local blog from 2018. Buried deep inside.
A wedding announcement. “Morayo and David Oluwaseun were married in a discreet Ikoyi ceremony.”
I had a lump in my throat.
D.O.
David Oluwaseun.
Dayo’s full name.
I looked at the screen as if it would change.
Zainab leaned over my shoulder and read it too.
> “Did Dayo marry someone named Morayo five years ago?”
> “No. No, it must be a coincidence. Right?”
But my heart wouldn’t believe me.
Who was Morayo who disappeared 48 hours after her wedding?✅
The same dress? The same shop?
The same initials inside the same ring sewn into the same dress I borrowed?
I suddenly felt a pang of unease.
Zainab leaned back in her chair, her eyes widening.
> “Did she ever tell you if she was married before?”
> “Never. He told me he had never been in a serious relationship with anyone before me.” > “That wasn’t just a lie. He was living a life.”
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, right?”
Still nothing.
> “Just tell me, Dingdong.”
> “How did you know?”
That was it.
No denial. No confusion. Alone… defeat.
> “Why didn’t you tell me?”
> “Because it should be over. He’s gone. Gone. Everyone thought he’d run away.”
> “And the ring?”
> “I never found him after he left. I thought he was gone.”
> “So, I guess I missed my clothes?”
I sighed. > “Look, I can’t explain everything over the phone. But I didn’t say that. And, I swear to you, it’s worth the price you pay :).
> “Someone did that.”
> “Then they might want to hurt you. Or me. I don’t know. But please… Don’t dig here. It’s dangerous.”
I laughed. Dry. Bitter.
> “You lied to me. More than anything. Now do you want me to trust you?”
Now he seemed desperate.
> “Morayo… He’s not who I thought he was. I made a mistake marrying him. I thought I could start organizing your things.”
> “You haven’t started studying. You’ve started your secrets.”
> “I still love you.”
Hung.
Zainab and I sat at her desk later that night. We didn’t talk much. We just looked at the ring, the dress, and a chalkboard we’d taken from her old office supplies. At the top, I wrote:
WHO LEFT THE NOTES?
Then, at the bottom:
Morayo?
Who else knows her?
Who else hates Dayo?
Did someone warn me?
Then, I circled a word in red:
Why now?
Three days before the wedding. She didn’t
return the dress. Not because I forgot about it. Not because I wanted to use it. Because I needed answers.
The second letter was folded inside my Bible.
> “You have seven more days.”
Seven days for what? I wondered…
Because someone told me that my dress wouldn’t let me go. I hadn’t finished the story I’d started.
That night, I hung it on my bedroom door.
She looked at me as if she was waiting.
And I said out loud:
“If you want something from me, you better talk to me now. “Because on Saturday, you’re in a bit of trouble.”
I laughed nervously.
But then… The light in my bedroom turned on.
Once.
Twice.
When I returned to the door… The dress was gone.
Screamed.
That night, I dreamed of a wedding.
Not mine.
It was Morayo’s.
She was standing under a canopy of flowers, in the dress I was wearing today. Her smile was wide. But her eyes… Scared.
She looked at the guests and then looked straight at me.
She whispered just one word:
> “Run.” I woke up drenched in sweat, my pillow soaked, my heart pounding like an alarm drum. My cell phone flashed. A new anonymous message. This time, a photo. Blurry. Taken from behind a curtain or a half-open door. A woman. In white. Lying on the floor. My eyes closed. Just a text below: “He didn’t listen to me.” the fans chose: “After the Rain”
In the morning, Elena didn’t wear a dress.
Instead of white lace, she chose a sober, ivory-colored, and unadorned dress. In her inner pocket she carried Isabel’s letter, now curled, 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 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.
**
A few weeks later, Elena visited the unmarked grave by the lake where Elizabeth’s ring was found. She nailed a small wooden cross, with a plaque that said:
“ISABEL – YOUR VOICE IS NOT LOST. THANK YOU FOR SAVING ME.”
**
Months passed. Elena returned to the shop where it all began. The old woman, with tears in her eyes, hugged her without saying a word.
And when she emerged, 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…
Finally there was light.