If curiosity inherited from his antiquedealing father werent in his blood, Alex would simply walk past the glint in the heap of building rubble and write it off as a broken bottle fragment. Instead, he leans down and picks up the deepblack object.
Its an old signet ring of dark silver, set with a large stone that has dulled with age. In the beam of a streetlamp the stone catches a faint, velvety blue glow.
Alex knows antiques better than people. His fingers instinctively feel the inner side of the band, tracing the worndown engraving. His heart skips. He scans the empty backalley, then slips the find into his coat pocket.
At home, under a magnifying glass, there is no doubt: its a genuine sapphire. His father has often told him that this gem is a talisman of faith, hope and love.
The seal is ancient, and after a gentle wipe with a soft cloth the stone reveals its true coloura rich cornflowerblue sapphire, not perfectly clear but with a soft haze. It isnt a fortune, yet it represents a serious sum for Alexs modest budgeta few thousand pounds, enough for a deposit on a flat or a lavish holiday.
What would you do?
Alex immediately starts looking for excuses not to tell anyone about the find. The ring lay in the rubbish of a demolished Victorian terrace, so theres no owner; it would have ended up in a landfill anyway. He found it, therefore its his right.
He remembers Emily. A month ago she sobbed, Youre as reliable as a British clock, Alex. But Ive realised life isnt just about reliability. It needs reckless acts, risks! Im sorry, Im leaving you for James.
Reckless act? Alex smirks, rolling the heavy ring between his palms. Ill pull a stunt thatll make every James of yours jealous. Ill book a flight to Santorini for six months, post photos, and you can watch and weep.
He doesnt yet know the exact value of the ring, but the antique shop he calls quotes a preliminary price, and the thought of such a gift for fate thrills him. A warm thrill creeps under his skin. Alex clenches the ring hard, feeling his hands tremble.
He conducts a proper appraisal: researching the seal, comparing the stone to catalogues. Everything matches. Then he sits down and starts planning. The process feels intoxicating. That night he doesnt close his eyes, dreaming of turquoise seas and swaying palms.
Would you have slept? Of course not
Alex perches on the windowsill, thinking. Selling it means parting with it forever. And its a story Yet practicality wins. I need a buyer who appreciates its antiquarian worth, not someone who will simply melt it down.
Whoever owns such a treasure will have a lot to ponder. Their imagination needs room to roam.
Santorini is decided.
Whats next?
I could finally remodel the flat, he muses. I could finally buy the lens Ive been saving for three years. He stands, walks to the window, watches the city still asleep, and adds, Or I could stash the money in a savings account and stop worrying about tomorrow.
In the morning his phone rings. Its a mate whos always trying to rope him into hikes, which Alex always refuses because of work. This time Ill go, he thinks, glancing at the ring on the table, and drifts back to sleep, lulled by sweet daydreams.
He wakes, grabs the ringreal, not a dream. To mark the start of a new chapter, Alex heads to that upscale restaurant with floortoceiling windows, the one that always feels intimidating because of the price tag.
At the bar, he spots her: Emily, alone with a coffee, her face a mix of sadness and loss.
He wants to turn away, but something stops him.
He approaches the maître d.
Do you see that young woman? he whispers. Id like to pay her bill. And give her this.
Alex pulls the ring from his pocket. It sits heavy on his palm, mysterious as if guarding the secrets of its former owners.
What? But this is
Just pass it on. Tell her its from someone capable of a real deed, and that he wishes her happiness, whatever that means.
He doesnt wait for a reaction, turns, and walks out, feeling the ground shift beneath his feet. He has just handed over not merely a ring, but his ticket to freedom. For what? To prove what? That he isnt greedy? That he isnt calculating? That her accusation was unfair? Or simply to see wonder, not envy, in her eyes? That true madness lies not in egoism but in the ability to let go?
***
Emily sits in the nowempty restaurant, unable to move. In her hand rests the antique signet, heavy, cold, undeniably real. Beside it a note from the maître d: From a person capable of a deed.
She understands everything.
Its a replynot the one she expected, not a plea to return. Its something larger. A gesture from a man who, at great personal cost, proves he can perform the ultimate selfless act. Alex didnt buy a car with the money, didnt jet off on a holiday. He gave the ring to her. Just that. In the name of what? Forgiveness? Love? Freedom?
She recalls James, the man she argued with over a coffee bill yesterday, and recognises the quiet, crushing power of such a gesture. She realises that a deed isnt about bravado; its about the quiet strength behind the act.
***
Alex, halfdrunk, sleeps in his nightclothes.
In his dream he walks along a beach, but instead of sand beneath his feet are scattered sapphires He wakes with a throbbing head and empty pockets, remembering everything: the ring, the restaurant, his reckless gesture.
He lies still, eyes closed, smelling a familiar perfumeone he once gave her for her birthday.
He opens his eyes, propping himself up on an elbow. In the doorway stands Emily, the ring clutched in her hand.
You? Why? Alex starts.
I returned Jamess gifts, she says softly. And this Emily holds out the ring. Its ours now. We could sell it and fly to Santorini together, or we could keep it. If youre okay with that.
Alex watches her, speechless.
He is completely sober and utterly content. He has performed a deed. And that deed, worth an entire fortune, has given him something far more valuable.
