In a seaside town bound by old laws, marriages required two witnesses, a blessing from the tide, and, bizarrely, consent from the ancestral registry. The registry was a ledger kept by a council of elders who believed lineage mattered more than love. When Aiko and Rafi eloped without approval, the registry declared their union “unrecognized.” The town’s bureaucracies followed suit. Taxes, housing, even medical forms refused to acknowledge them as married. They were furious.
Then they learned about proxy weddings: a loophole where stand-ins married in your place, blessed by tide and registry, transferring legitimacy to the actual couple. It was archaic, used historically when grooms were at war. Modern use was rare. Aiko balked at the symbolism. “Why should someone else stand in our vows?” Rafi argued pragmatism. “If it gets us papers, let’s play their game.” They needed proxies willing to act, to promise temporarily what they already lived.
They asked friends. None wanted to risk entangling their own names. A stranger volunteered—a barista named Laleh who’d heard their story and believed in poking holes in old rules. A fisherman named Tomas joined, grinning. “I’ll marry anyone if it annoys the registry.” The four met at dawn. The tide was low. The elders were reluctantly present, smelling of salt and disapproval.
Aiko and Rafi coached their proxies. “Say what we mean.” Laleh and Tomas nodded, nervous. The ceremony was surreal. The proxies held hands, recited vows Aiko and Rafi had written. The tide lapped, blessing ankles. The elders stamped the registry, grumbling. Papers were signed transferring proxy vows to Aiko and Rafi. A legal fiction, but fiction with teeth. The state updated records. Bureaucratic gears turned.
Afterward, the four shared coffee. Tomas joked he was now spiritually married to the ocean. Laleh asked, “How do you feel, being married by not being married?” Aiko felt both empowered and uneasy. “We used a system we hate,” she said. Rafi shrugged. “Systems hate being used creatively.” They gave their proxies gifts: a handmade mug for Laleh, a new net for Tomas. They stayed friends.
Word spread. Others sought proxy weddings. The registry was overwhelmed. Elders tried to tighten rules—blood ties only, fees increased. Laleh and Tomas helped organize a protest, holding signs that read, “Love shouldn’t need stand-ins.” Aiko spoke at the council, calm but firm. “We played by your rules and you still want to move goalposts. Maybe the problem is the game.” The town was divided: tradition versus paperwork sanity.
The tide decided in its own way. A storm surged, flooding the registry hall. The ledger soaked, ink bleeding. Records blurred. Elders panicked. A young clerk suggested digitizing, modernizing, maybe relaxing rules. Exhausted, the elders agreed to a review. Meanwhile, couples kept marrying, some with proxies, some without, ignoring stamps.
Eventually, the council voted to abolish proxy requirement and registry consent. They framed it as adaptation to climate change—too many high tides to schedule ceremonies. Everyone knew protests and creative loopholes pushed them. The proxy wedding that started it became legend. Laleh and Tomas were invited to every subsequent wedding as honored guests. They declined sometimes, living their own lives, but attended Aiko and Rafi’s anniversary parties, laughing about the day they married strangers by proxy.
Aiko and Rafi kept their ocean-blessed papers in a drawer, a reminder that love had won by bending rules until they broke. The town’s new registry was simple: two signatures, a tide if you wanted one, no proxies unless requested for joy rather than necessity. Some still chose proxies as performance art, celebrating the loophole that led to change.