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At dawn, Mina returned with tea. He handed her the repaired clip. It played: a grainy aisle, the bride's laugh like sunlight through curtains, a father steadying his daughter, a child chasing confetti that trembled like fireflies. The image was imperfect — edges shimmered, colors were lean — but what mattered arrived with crystalline clarity: the warmth, the small gestures, the cadence of vows. Mina cried once, once hard, and the tears were grateful.