The shower helps.
Not much. But enough.
I stand in the too-small hotel bathroom with a towel wrapped around me, studying my face in the mirror like it belongs to someone whose life didn't implode in the last twenty-four hours.
My eyes are puffy. My nose is red. My hair is trying to do three different things at once.
The ring sits serenely on my pinky. All the conditioner in the world couldn't get this thing to budge when I tried again in the shower.
"Congratulations," I tell it. "You outlasted waterproof mascara. Impressive."
It doesn't pulse this time. Doesn't do anything at all.
I check my phone for the first time after finding a spare charging cable in my purse and plugging it in.
Missed calls
Voicemails
Unread texts
Some from Rowan, most from Ash. I swipe them all away and type one quick message to Ash about whether I should find a place or if he will. When I see the little ellipses show up indicating his inevitable reply, I put my phone on silent and throw it in my bag to ignore. Just in case it's more of the same.
"I'm sorry."
"I miss you."
"Come home."
"Let's work on this."
I don't really have the bandwidth for that right now.
By eight-thirty, I've checked out of the hotel and driven across town to a small strip mall I know too well. Third unit from the end, squeezed between a nail salon and a tax prep office, is Marisol Fine Jewelry & Repair.
I helped archive a small exhibit for her once, historic engagement rings through the decades. She'd insisted I stop by anytime I "needed a clasp fixed or a man evaluated."
Right now I need one of those more than the other.
The bell over the door chimes as I step inside.
The shop smells like metal polish and faint vanilla. Glass cases glint with rows of wedding bands and delicate necklaces. A rotating display of birthstone pendants spins lazily in the corner, like it's on break.
Mood.
"Be right there!" calls a familiar voice from the back.
A moment later, Marisol appears, wiping her hands on a polishing cloth. She's in her fifties, sharp-eyed, with reading glasses perched on top of her head and a measuring tape looped casually around her neck like a scarf.
"Evie!" she says, breaking into a smile. "Haven't seen you since the exhibit. How's the world of dust and dead people's things?"
"Organized," I say automatically. "Mostly."
She laughs. "As it should be. What brings you in?"
I lift my hand.
The smile fades a little.
"Oh," she says. "That's new."
"Very," I reply. "And very stuck."
She gestures me closer, switching to professional mode in a heartbeat. "Let's have a look."
I step up to the counter and rest my hand on the soft black pad. Her fingers are gentle as she angles my hand under the light, turning it, examining the ring from every side.
"Huh," she murmurs. "Simple design. No stone, no engraving. Almost no visible markings at all. Where'd you get it?"
My brain offers from a haunted shoebox at work and then wisely discards that.
"It was part of a donation," I say instead. That's not a lie. "I made the mistake of trying it on."
Well. Close enough.
"You archivists," she tuts. "You're supposed to know better."
"I know," I deadpan. "Tragic downfall via poor professional boundaries."
She chuckles, then reaches for a small jeweler's loupe, flipping it into place and leaning in.
I watch her expression more than I watch what she's doing.
Her brows draw together.
"Do you see anything weird?" I ask, trying for casual.
"Weird how?"
"I don't know. A seam. A clasp. A micro-hinge. 'Property of eldritch entity, do not touch.'"
One corner of her mouth tugs up. "No inscriptions. But it is strange."
She slides the loupe off and sets it aside.
"The finish is almost too smooth," she says. "Like it's been worn down for a hundred years and also not worn at all. And I've never quite seen metal catch the light like this. It doesn't look... wrong. Just... unusual."
The ring warms on my finger, like it's preening.
"Can you get it off?" I ask.
"We'll try." She's matter-of-fact, which I appreciate. "Any pain? Tingling? Swelling?"
"No. It just won't move. At all. I tried lotion, soap, string trick, swearing."
"Swearing is usually step one," she agrees. "Okay. Let's see what we can do without taking your finger with it."
She leads me to a small side station with a higher chair and more focused lighting. She washes her hands, pulls on a pair of gloves, and reaches for a tiny metal tool I recognize from exactly zero contexts.
"What's that one do?" I ask.
"Ring cutter," she says. "Low impact. We'll try lubricant and compression first, but if it's really fused, we may have to make a small cut, then re-shape or replace it."
The ring cools suddenly against my skin. I get the distinct impression that it's not happy about this.
I swallow.
"Totally normal process," she adds. "I promise. I've taken off rings that have been stuck for decades."
She starts gently, twisting the band, applying a clear gel, working it around my finger with practiced hands. Her touch is firm but careful, the way I handle fragile paper.
For the first few seconds, it feels like any other attempt.
Then the metal heats.
Fast.
Not scalding, but hot enough that my nerves jolt. I hiss through my teeth.
"You okay?" she asks, immediately easing off.
"It just... got hot," I say. "Like, really fast."
She frowns. "That's odd. Sometimes friction warms the band, but not like that."
She dries my finger and reaches for a different tool, a delicate little clamp, almost like pliers. "Let's just test the give on this. Tell me the second anything hurts."
She grips the ring, starts to apply the slightest pressure, and a spike of white, sharp pain races down my hand like lightning.
"Stop," I gasp.
She jerks her hands away instantly. "Okay. Okay. Sorry." Her eyes are wide now, all humor gone. "That was barely anything. I've never seen that kind of reaction."
The pain vanishes the second she lets go.
The ring lies against my skin, cool and innocent.
Of course it does.
Marisol studies my finger like it's a puzzle that's personally offended her.
"Is there any chance this is... welded?" she asks slowly. "Did someone do something wild like solder it while it was on you?"
"No," I say. "It..." melted itself onto me like liquid nightmare silver "...was a normal ring until yesterday."
I watch her, and something flickers in her expression, something I don't usually see from experts:
Uncertainty.
"Evie..." She hesitates. "I can keep trying. Stronger cutters, more pressure. But if it hurts like that with almost nothing, I don't feel comfortable pushing it. I don't want to damage the soft tissue. Or the bone."
My stomach drops a little.
"So your professional assessment is...?"
She blows out a slow breath.
"My professional assessment is that this ring doesn't want to come off." She meets my eyes. "If it were me, I'd see a doctor. Maybe even a specialist. Make sure there's not some underlying circulation or nerve issue before we go at it with more force."
Right. Hi, doctor, the cursed artifact won't let go of me, can you prescribe something for that?
"Yeah," I say instead. "That makes sense."
She must see something tight and strained in my face, because her expression softens.
"I'm sorry," she says quietly. "I wish I could do more."
"You already did," I reply. "You tried."
On my way out, she calls, "If anything changes, if it loosens, swells, anything, come back. We'll take another look."
I nod, push the door open, and step back into the late-morning light.
The sky is painfully blue. The parking lot shimmer-hums with heat. Cars move in smooth, oblivious lines.
I stare down at my hand.
The ring gleams, perfectly unbothered.
"Great," I murmur. "So you're clingy and uncooperative. Bold of you."
The metal pulses warm, once, like it heard me and has the audacity to be amused.
I head to the car, thumb hovering over my phone.
Home is... not an option. Not yet. I don't know where I'm going to sleep tonight. I don't know what my life looks like now.
But I know where I'm going for the next eight hours.
The archives.
I can't get the ring off. I can't undo what it showed me.
But I can go back to the one place that's still predictable.
Mostly.
I unlock the door, slide into the driver's seat, and start the engine.
"Fine," I tell the ring. "You win this round. But we're setting some boundaries."
It catches the light, a tiny, smug crescent of silver on my hand. Something tells me that I won't be winning a battles of wills against it any time soon.
And for the first time since yesterday, under everything else, pain, anger, grief, another feeling edges in:
I want to know what this is.
And why it's doing this to me.
I pull out of the lot and let muscle memory drive.
Left at the light. Merge onto the main road. Ignore the way my phone buzzes twice in my bag, Ash-shaped and needy.
By the time I park behind the museum, it's just after ten. Late for me. Early for someone whose whole life detonated yesterday.
The staff entrance smells like coffee, dust, and the faint chemical tang of floor cleaner. Comforting, in a sterile way.
I badge in, the reader giving its usual reluctant beep, and step into the cool, dim hallway that leads to the archives.
The closer I get, the more the ring warms.
Like it's happy to be back.
"Same," I mutter. "Back to work we go."
The archive door creaks when I push it open.
Monica looks up from her desk, a pen in one hand, a stack of accession forms in the other. Her scarf today is slightly less offensive, which means she probably overslept, which also probably means that her date went well. I'm glad that even after yesterday, I still feel happy for her.
"Hey, corpse whisperer," she calls. "You're..."
She stops.
Her eyes narrow in that very specific way people get when they're clocking that something is Wrong but can't quite triage what kind.
"You look like you lost a fight with a raccoon and three different round brushes," she says gently. "You okay?"
For a split second, the easiest word in the world rises to my tongue.
Fine.
I open my mouth.
"I'm..."
The ring tightens, just a fraction, heat licking at my skin like a warning.
Not enough to hurt. Just enough to make me notice.
I shut my mouth again.
Monica's brows go up. "That bad, huh?"
I exhale. "Everything exploded."
She sets the forms down. "Okay. That's specific enough to be honest and vague enough to make me panic. Do you need to go home?"
Home.
The word lands in my stomach like a rock.
"No," I say. "I... can't. Not right now."
The ring stays neutral.
True enough.
Monica stares at me for a long moment. Too long.
"Evie... is this a 'someone was a jerk to you' face or a 'someone torched your whole life' face?"
My chest goes tight. "Second one."
The ring stays warm. Satisfied.
Monica nods, steady and sympathetic. "Breakup?"
I swallow. "Yeah. But I don't... think I can talk about it yet."
Monica gestures toward the archive shelves. "Then you do not talk. You file. You alphabetize. You pretend these boxes deserve better than men."
She searches my face for another beat, then nods once, decisive. "Okay. New policy: you're on gentle tasks only. No donor drama, no Harold, no school groups. You get boxes, forms, and the illusion of control."
"Thought that was already my job," I smile, voice thin but functional.
"Yeah, but now it's doctor-ordered." She pauses. "Speaking of doctors, how'd the Priest thing go?"
"Jeweler," I say. "Priest is plan C. Jeweler couldn't get it off."
"Oof." She winces. "Did she at least say you're not turning into a cursed Victorian bride, or...?"
"She said it doesn't want to come off," I reply. "And that I should see a doctor before anyone tries harder tools."
Monica stares at the ring like it just insulted her personally.
"Rude," she tells it. Then, to me: "Do you... want me to come with you? If you make an appointment, I mean. I can run interference, bully the receptionist, whatever."
Warmth pricks the back of my throat, sharp and sudden. I'm too raw for this kind of kindness.
My instinct again is to say no, I'm fine, I don't need that.
"I..."
The ring flares hot around my finger, a quick, chastising pulse.
I stop.
Take a shallow breath.
"Yeah," I say instead, voice quiet. "Maybe. I don't know when yet, but... maybe."
Monica relaxes very slightly, like I made the right move in some game I don't understand the rules of. "Good. Just text me. I'll bring snacks and inappropriate magazines."
"Is there an appropriate magazine for this?" I ask.
"Not in my world," she says. "Anyway, your box of spooky nonsense is still where you left it. I just messaged Harold that you were buried in cataloging and would commit violence if interrupted."
"That's the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me."
"I know." She picks up her pen again. "Go commune with your haunted shoebox. I'll be out here pretending these forms are my enemies and filling them out is the only way to defeat them."
I walk back to my workstation, the familiar rows of shelves closing around me like a hug that's slightly too firm but well-meant.
The cart is exactly where I left it. The shoebox, too.
Waiting.
The ring pulses once, warm and steady, as my hand hovers over the lid.
"Round three," I whisper.
I lift the top.