When my fiancé got down on one knee, I thought my heart might burst. I had imagined this moment for years—the joy, the words, the sparkle of a ring catching the sunlight. But when he opened the box, the dream shifted. Inside wasn’t a traditional diamond or even anything I recognized.
The ring looked old. Ancient, even. The band was etched with swirling symbols I didn’t recognize. At the center was a deep, smoky stone—almost black—with a faint, strange glow. It didn’t shine. It didn’t sparkle. It just… sat there, heavy and still. I smiled, not wanting to ruin the moment. But something in me felt uneasy.
Maybe it was just unfamiliar. Maybe he wanted something meaningful—something unique. But the longer I wore it, the more it unsettled me. It didn’t just feel strange—it felt like it carried something with it. Something I couldn’t explain.
A week later, everything changed.
We were helping his mom clean out old boxes of photos when I found it—an old Polaroid buried under loose pictures. It was Zach, smiling with his arm around a woman I didn’t recognize. She looked joyful. But it wasn’t her face that stopped me.
It was her hand. She was wearing my ring.
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