With This Ring
Mary Margaret has had the ring for as long as she can remember. It's been passed down through her family, which is the only reason she has it in the first place, because it's definitely not her style, no, not at all.
It's such an awkward shade of green, one that doesn't go with anything and in fact, actively clashes with everything in her closet. It's horribly dated - vintage but in a bad way, more gaudy than aesthetic.
Of all the rings in the world that could have been her family heirloom, Mary Margaret is cursed with this one.
...
She's had the ring for as long as she can remember and she's been trying to get rid of it for just about as long.
It starts off easily enough. She goes through a period where she is absent-minded and forgetful. She leaves it in random places like on a seat at Granny's Diner or on a spare tray in the hospital. But someone always notices, some good samaritan always calls after her, Mary Margaret, you've dropped your ring!
And it always ends up back on her finger.
She tries a different approach, she tries to accidentally lose it. She wears it on her pinky where it's too loose, in the hopes that it might fall off somewhere and she would finally be rid of it. But it always inexplicably ends up in her purse or in her pocket or even in her shoe somehow.
It always ends up back with her.
It always finds her.
...
After a while, she gives up trying to get rid of the ring, and just when she thinks she will be stuck with it forever, an opportunity arises. She bumps into Mr. Gold on the street one evening and he becomes quite taken with it.
How unique, he croons, how utterly charming. He picks up her hand, touches the gem, and offers her an impressive sum for it. This little treasure would be perfect for my shop.
And Mary Margaret is tempted, so very tempted, but she is also sentimental. She cannot shake her duty or nostalgia or something deeper, so I'm sorry, but it's not for sale, she says. It's a family heirloom, she explains, it belonged to my grandmother.
But of course, Mr. Gold nods. Precious memories, I'm sure.
Mary Margaret smiles apologetically, yes, precious.
He drops her hand and turns to leave. Remember, Ms. Blanchard, he murmurs, should you ever change your mind, I'd be happy to make you a deal.
For some reason, she hears it as a threat.
And Mary Margaret keeps her hand on her ring the entire way home.
...
It's still not her style and she still dislikes the color, but Mary Margaret wears the ring anyway, because she's had it for as long as she can remember and it's been passed down through her family.
(So she's been told. But told by whom?)
It must have been her grandmother's, she guesses. From her grandfather, who bent down on one knee and slipped the ring onto her finger for their wedding.
But sometimes, when Mary Margaret dreams, she feels a strong hand slip the ring onto her own finger.
She meant what she had said, the memories attached to it are precious. But whose memories, she's not so sure. But it doesn't really matter, does it, because the ring was someone's happy ending once upon a time, and keeping it lets her believe that it could have been hers.
She stops trying to forget it and she stops trying to lose it, and she never takes it off again.
Because in the end, the ring always finds its way back to her finger.
It always finds its way back to her.
It always finds her.