BELOW

Across dusty, barren fields, the old man trudged, his steps heavy with sorrow and guilt. An unnamed ache churned at the pit of his stomach, a yearning to mend wounds he couldn't locate.

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A fragment of recent memory drifted through his mind: I remember the warm amber sunlight, twinkling through the swaying trees. The breeze… felt calm and gentle around my neck, and the cherished warmth in my clasped, outstretched hand. The memory frayed like an old patch of fabric, torn from the beautiful garment it once belonged to. Pausing, the old man rested his hands in his pockets. There, in the lining, he felt a small, hard and smooth object. Pulling it out, he saw that it was a simple silver ring.

How curious, he thought.

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Turning the ring over in his fingers. Whose was it? Why was it in his pocket? Tracing the faint groove inside, where an inscription had worn thin, it felt as though the ring had forgotten its owner, unable to answer the questions... yet there was a strange familiarity. It meant something, but what?

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Holding it up to the sun, the ring slipped from his grip. It tumbled towards the dry earth, rolling into an open crack. Sudden and overwhelming grief washed over him. He dropped to his knees, hands groping at the fracture, desperate to retrieve the token of a past that eluded him. But the ring had vanished.

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“Nooo! I cannot lose you!” he cried out, his voice faltering.

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And in an instant, it came back to him — the silver ring belonged to his wife.