I wore several rings.

Everyone always asked me why I wore so many rings, at least one for each finger, not to mention all the extras I carried around in my pocket. I explained that they all held a great significance to me, and it wasn’t a lie; each one was a gift from someone I loved.

I didn’t have a problem with all of these questions; it made sense. I was a white male living in the roughest part of Delaine. It didn’t make a whole lot of sense to wear all of my possessions at all times. I didn’t mind it, though. I had built a bit of a reputation with most of the criminals in the area.

I received several other questions as well, one of the most prominent being, “Where did you get these rings, and how did you get those intricate designs?” Okay, I’ll admit, that’s technically two questions, but they are always asked together, hand in hand. Like they’re siblings or something.

In response, I tell him or her or they or whatever that the rings were usualy custom-made by some guy who would probably sell them with some super huge dollar sign attached. The only reason I could afford them was because of my job and my attachment to him.

I never told anyone that I was the guy who custom-made the rings.

At this point, most people would just walk away with their head down, knowing that they neither had the time nor the money to get rings like mine. It was all just too much. I would shake my head, feel a little bit of guilt, and walk the opposite direction. Walking the same direction would just be awkward, so I always tried to avoid it, even if I needed to go that way. And besides, I had faster ways to getting where I needed to be.

However, one day, I was talking to a girl. She looked to be about sixteen or seventeen, maybe even just a little bit older. She was slim with a height of five foot three, dirty blond hair, striking hazel eyes, round face, upturned nose, and small pink mouth. She had one earring in her right ear, her hair was loose around her head and neck, and her clothes fit her form perfectly. Even for a twenty-eight-year-old widower like myself, she was a headturner.

I was sitting at a table eating my lunch when she walked over. She likely noticed my rings, so I prepared my usual answers. She sat across from me, and she asked me the three usual questions about my rings. “Why do you wear the rings? Where do you get them? How can I get some for myself?” I gave her all of my generic responses, but then she said something that I didn’t expect.

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“How much?” She was examining my rings.

I was silent for a moment. “How much for what?”

“For one of your rings. I would really love to buy one, if it isn’t too much of a bother.” Her voice was sweet like a chocolate custard. I felt like I could almost taste it. “I think I would like to buy that one.” She pointed to the ring on my left ring finger. My wedding ring, designed with a flowing forest green and gold mix. The colors looked like they were wrapping around each other, two different things uniting to create one.

”I…” I hesitated. I had a strong feeling that I shouldn’t sell this ring, but I also knew that I didn’t remember her anyway. Whoever my wife was, she was gone. I don’t know where, I don’t know when, I don’t know what happened to her. I just woke up in my bed one morning with this ring on my finger, and I assumed that it was my wedding ring. It didn’t help that something was missing from my life, and I couldn’t tell what it was.

”I need to think about it for a moment.”

The girl nodded in understanding. “I understand. It must be difficult selling a ring with so much memory attached.”

I didn’t say anything.

We sat in silence for a minute longer while I contemplated the sale of the ring. I didn’t think I could get rid of it that easily.

I eventually came to a conclusion. “I can’t sell this ring to you. There’s too much value to it. I will, however, sell you this ring.” I reached in my pocket and pulled out a ring with an impressive design of a tree. I had plenty of these rings already, and I didn’t feel a connection with them. I never really saw a need for them either. What good would trees do for me?

The girl picked up the ring. She examined it closely, following the impression with her finger. “I like it,” she said. “Not as good as taking the wedding ring of a widower, but this one will do. How much?”

I never said I was a widower. I started to get suspicious of this girl.

”I’ll sell you the ring for $900. Is that a reasonable price?”

”For a custom-made ring this intricate? Definitely worth it.” She pulled some money out of her back pocket and paid the $900 in physical cash. I put it all in my wallet.

”Thanks for the ring.” She stood up. “My name’s Kate, by the way. Oh, and before I go…” she pulled out a business card, “…call me if you get any… dreams.”

I swore she was getting older before my eyes. She had to be around twenty-six if she was pulling out business cards and giving me her number. No seventeen-year-old would have that kind of thing going for her. I couldn’t tell, but I thought she was also a bit taller than when she had sat down a few minutes ago.

I took the card from her. “Um, thanks, Kate, but I don’t have dreams.” That was a lie. I had plenty of those. “I don’t think I’ll need your help.”

”Well, just in case. You’ll know when the time is right.” And with that, she turned around and left.

I finished my lunch, looked at the card, decided to put it in my pocket, and walked away from the table. One question continued to linger on my mind, though: How had she known I was a widower?