Gemotions

The chipped porcelain of the pawn shop's display case felt cold against Maya's knuckles. She pressed her face closer, peering at the tarnished silver setting. *That* ring. Her grandmother's. Gone. Reduced to this, glittering under a sickly fluorescent light. A tiny bead of sweat trickled down her temple.

She’d told her mother she was fine, had even forced a smile when the obituary was read. Fine. Except she wasn’t fine. Not even close. She would get it back. The price tag, a paltry sum, barely registered.

Maya walked out of the shop, the ring now cool and heavy in her palm. The day was bright, mocking. She found a bench and slipped the ring on, the band a little loose on her finger. A small victory. She decided to donate the expensive, custom-made urn her grandmother had wanted to the local animal shelter. She’d always hated cats.