When he dropped to one knee, I expected magic. My heart was pounding, my hands trembling. But then… he opened the box.
The ring wasn’t what I’d dreamed of. No diamond. No sparkle. No simple elegance.
Instead, it looked… old. Ancient, even. Intricate engravings circled the band, framing a smoky, almost black stone. It pulsed under the light like it was alive.
I forced a smile as he slid it onto my finger, but inside, something twisted. I couldn’t shake the feeling: this ring carried a story — one I didn’t know.
At first, I thought maybe he had chosen something “unique,” something personal. But that wasn’t it. The ring felt heavy on my hand — not physically, but emotionally.
It wasn’t until a week later that the real story started to unravel.
