Gemotions

The harsh fluorescent lights of the pawn shop seemed to drain the color from everything, leaving a sterile, almost clinical feeling. Mark ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit he hadn't noticed he'd picked up. He needed a distraction, he thought, anything to keep his mind from circling.

Then, he saw it. The setting was the obvious clue. It was a replica. He knew the original, of course. His grandmother had worn the ring every day of her life, a constant, sparkling presence on her hand.

He approached the counter, the floorboards groaning under his weight. He’d never thought about what happened to the ring after she passed. He wondered where it had been and what it had seen.