After my convalescence. Finally getting back to work.

It had been months since my accident, a strange and turbulent period marked by recovery, revelations, and the subtle but unmistakable shifting of my worldview. The most bewildering discovery of all? The peculiar power that came with the gold ring I’d unknowingly acquired. What at first seemed like an odd little trinket had turned into something far more profound: anyone wearing a ring—be it gold, silver, or otherwise—seemed compelled to obey me. Not just listen or consider my words but obey as though I’d spoken a decree.

Anthony Jenkins, my perpetually indifferent neighbor, had been the bane of the block for years, letting his overgrown trees blanket the neighborhood in dead leaves every fall. The guy barely acknowledged people, let alone their polite requests to trim the mess. But Anthony, lucky for me, was married—meaning he wore a ring. So, one day, just for fun, I casually told him, “Hey, Anthony, how about you take care of those trees?” The next thing I knew, he was out there, sweat pouring down his face, furiously sawing branches like he was auditioning for Lumberjack of the Year. A decade of neglect fixed in a single afternoon, all because of that little gold band on his finger.

It all began with the ring. A strange golden band I found among my belongings when the hospital returned my effects after the accident. At first, I assumed it had been left there by mistake and planned to return it. But somehow, it stayed. And now, I couldn’t imagine parting with it.

The morning started with an unfamiliar ritual—tying my own tie. I stood before the mirror, fumbling with the fabric in a way that would’ve earned me an eye roll from Rosa. She used to handle this for me, her hands moving with effortless precision while she teased me about my *helplessness*. Now, though, her absence was more a relief than a void. Don't get me wrong, losing her had been a bitter pill to swallow, but in hindsight, it was a blessing. If she couldn’t stand by me during a difficult recovery, what kind of partner would she have been in the long run?

I eventually managed a passable Windsor knot, smoothing the tie down with a small sense of accomplishment. It wasn’t perfect, but it was mine. The act felt oddly symbolic, a quiet reclamation of independence, even as the golden ring on my finger gleamed faintly in the morning light.

The rest of my routine played out like an old record—coffee, shower, keys. Familiar motions, unchanged despite the profound shift in my life. As I stepped outside into the brisk morning air, my thoughts wandered back to the ring. Its power still felt surreal, like a secret I wasn’t quite ready to accept. But then, life had a way of handing you strange tools just when you least expected them.

I hadn’t gone far down the sidewalk when I spotted her a few paces ahead: Sarah Davies, the eighteen-year-old daughter of my neighbors. The Davies family had moved in a few months back, but our interactions had been minimal—polite nods, occasional small talk. Sarah herself had been little more than a passing figure, the kind of teenager who blended into the background with her phone glued to her hand.

Today, though, as I fell in step behind her, I noticed her for the first time. Really _noticed _her.

Her short red pixie cut gleamed in the morning sun, vibrant against her pale skin. Her petite frame moved with a youthful, almost **** grace, her slim shoulders slightly hunched as she texted furiously. She was dressed casually—snug jeans that clung to her hips and thighs, and a fitted hoodie that highlighted her small but defined figure. There was something striking about her, though I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Her petite build was almost delicate, yet she carried herself with a kind of unspoken confidence, like someone who had never questioned her place in the world.

My gaze lingered longer than it should have. The curve of her hips, the subtle sway of her rear as she walked—it was mesmerizing in a way that caught me off guard. I tried to shake the thought, chalking it up to the idle observations of a man who hadn’t had much excitement in his life lately. But as my eyes drifted back to her again and again, a faint unease began to creep in.

What the hell is wrong with me? I thought, forcing myself to look away. I wasn’t some creep ogling the neighbor’s kid. I was twice her age, for God’s sake. Yet, no matter how much I tried to justify my way out of it, my gaze kept slipping back to her. It wasn’t just attraction—it was something heavier, like a dark cloud forming on the edge of a clear sky. Unseen, but undeniable.

I didn’t even notice how my thumb kept fidgeting with the ring, the cool metal gliding between my fingers, a rhythm I couldn’t shake. Maybe it was nerves, maybe it was something else. I’d like to say it was nothing, but that would’ve been a lie. And right now, I was finding it harder and harder to tell the difference.

I quickened my pace, deciding it was best to put some distance between us. As I passed her, I nodded in greeting—a silent acknowledgment, the kind of gesture neighbors exchanged without a second thought. Sarah, still glued to her phone, didn’t respond. Or at least, she didn’t seem to. For a brief moment, her eyes flicked upward, just enough for me to notice. She’d seen me, I was sure of it. But she made no move to reciprocate, no nod, no smile. Just an impassive glance that lingered for a second too long before she looked away.

Rude, I thought, irritation starting to bubble up. What happened to basic manners? Was this what the younger generation had come to?

I felt a faint heat rise in my chest, my hands instinctively tightening into fists. But it was the way she looked at me—like I was an inconvenience, something unworthy of her time—that really dug under my skin. The way she dismissed me so easily only made my growing frustration more palpable.

The station came into view, a small relief, and I dismissed the thought. It was probably nothing. The kind of thing that wouldn’t matter in an hour. But even so, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being provoked. That little flicker of annoyance twisted into something else, deeper, darker.

The platform was already bustling with commuters by the time I arrived. I found a spot near the edge, settling in to wait for the train. A minute later, I heard her voice. Sarah. She was standing somewhere behind me, chattering loudly on her phone. Her voice cut through the ambient noise, rising and falling with the kind of exaggerated energy that only teenagers seemed to muster.

I tried to ignore it, but the sheer volume made it impossible. I caught fragments of her conversation—something about a party, a friend’s drama, all delivered with the urgency of a life-or-**** situation. My patience wore thin.

When the train finally pulled into the station, I stepped forward with the crowd, relieved to escape her incessant chatter. But as the doors opened, she elbowed her way past me, still glued to her phone, and snagged one of the last remaining seats. The audacity of it left me standing there in the aisle, staring at her with a mix of irritation and disbelief. She didn’t even glance in my direction.

And then I saw it—the silver ring on her thumb.

A familiar tingle ran through me, a thrill tempered only by the faintest shadow of guilt. She was wearing a ring. _Why not? _The thought came unbidden, a whisper that grew louder with every passing second. She’d been inconsiderate, rude. Surely, she could use a lesson in manners.