For years, the ring attracted very little admiration.
It was plain, modest, and easy to overlook. Some people questioned why I wore it at all. Others assumed it had little value.
I rarely felt the need to explain.
The ring had belonged to my grandmother, and that alone was reason enough to keep it.
Then one day, it broke.
As I examined the damaged stone, a small rolled piece of paper slipped into my hand.
Everything else faded for a moment.
The handwriting was unmistakably hers.