A year ago, during a casual office Secret Santa, a colleague named Sarah handed me a small velvet pouch tied with a silver ribbon. I’d always liked Sarah — quiet, kind, always observant — but we weren’t close. Inside the pouch was a simple silver ring, set with a tiny emerald that caught the light perfectly. Elegant, understated, thoughtful.
I slipped it on immediately, more out of curiosity than sentiment. Over the next months, the ring became part of me. I wore it every day, not for style, but as a quiet anchor during long, gray office hours. It was a small comfort, something steady in a life that felt increasingly scattered and noisy.
Then, one ordinary morning, as I twisted it absentmindedly during a meeting, I noticed a faint groove around the emerald. It was barely visible, but it was there — like the edge of a secret door. That evening, curiosity won. I carefully twisted the top, holding my breath, and it came loose.
Inside was a tiny, folded piece of paper. Two words: “Keep going.”
No name. No explanation. Just those words, written with deliberate care.