When he proposed, I expected magic. But the ring wasn’t what I dreamed of — “no diamond, no sparkle.” Instead, it looked ancient, with dark engravings and a smoky black stone that almost pulsed. I smiled, but something felt off.

A week later, I found a photo of Zach with another woman. On her finger: *my ring*. “Her name was Camille,” he said. “She was my fiancée before you… and she disappeared.” No goodbye, no body — just gone. The ring had been mailed back anonymously. He’d kept it. “I thought maybe… it could have a new beginning.”

Then came the knock.

Taped to the door was a photo of *me*, wearing the ring. Three words scrawled across it: **“You’re next. Return it.”** No fingerprints, no leads. Just fear.

Digging deeper, we found Camille had ties to an antique occult society. The ring was “a symbol of devotion… an object of binding.” Not just old — *dark*.

Zach claimed he didn’t know. But doubt took root. I returned the ring. We postponed the wedding.

Now, I wonder — did Camille vanish, or was she taken? *Sometimes, the past doesn’t stay buried. And the things we wear carry stories we were never meant to inherit.*