It was three weeks after the purchase that the ring caught on the edge of a kitchen cabinet. A tiny metal claw bent outward, leaving the grey stone rattling loosely in its setting. Hannah nearly threw it in the trash, but the habit of wearing a ring had already taken hold.
She took it to Miller’s Fine Jewelry, a narrow, dimly lit shop squeezed between a dry cleaner and a bakery. The air inside smelled of metal polish and old paper. Mr. Miller, an elderly man with thick bifocals perched on his nose, took the ring with a pair of padded tweezers.
“Costume piece,” he said without looking up, his voice raspy. “Base metal with a gold wash. I can bend the prong back, but I can’t guarantee the brass won’t snap.” Hannah nodded, sitting on the high leather stool to wait.