She twists the ring on her little finger; the silver is scratched and pitted with age, the gem is the cloudy blue that belongs to the vault of the twilight sky. A pair of sweeping curves hold the setting in place, lazy waves frozen in the moment just before they crash upon the shore.
It clings to her finger, dutifully placed there every morning.
If you asked her about the day she got it, she would have a story for you. But, it would be a convenient fabrication. There would be no memories, no details of the day her eight-year-old face lit up at the sight of the tiny jewel, no sparkling insights into the unusual gift for a little girl.
The ring has always been with her. She almost forgot to bring it along, once, but the ring knew better than to let that happen.
It wouldn't let her forget, just as it won't let her remember.
The ring knows better than that.