Matt finds the ring

The trail behind Matt’s apartment was one he’d walked a hundred times—an easy loop through the pines, close enough to feel familiar, quiet enough to clear his head after a long week. But today, halfway up the ridge, something caught the light where nothing should’ve been shining.

He slowed.

There, half‑buried in the dirt beside a jut of stone, lay a small silver ring. No footprints around it. No sign anyone had dropped it. Just a faint glint, like it had been waiting for him to notice.

Matt crouched, brushing away the soil. The metal was warm against his fingertips, warmer than the sun could’ve made it. Simple design, no markings, but it felt… deliberate. Like it belonged to something older than the trail, older than the town.

He glanced around the empty woods, then back at the ring in his palm.

“Okay,” he muttered to himself, “that’s weird.”

Still, he couldn’t shake the pull of it.

And before he could talk himself out of it, Matt slid the ring onto his finger.