The Box on the Porch
The doorbell rang at seven in the morning, two hours before Imogen Faraday was supposed to be zipped into the dress hanging behind her closet door.
"Ignore it," said Priya, pins in her mouth, wrestling a curling iron. "Probably the flowers."
Imogen went anyway. Barefoot on the cold porch tile, robe cinched tight, she found a small brown-paper package propped against the railing. No return address. No courier logo. Just her name, typed on a plain white label: IMOGEN FARADAY.
She almost left it for later — it was her wedding day, and there wasn't room in her chest for anything that wasn't Callum, or the ceremony, or the seventeen things still on her list. But something about the label, so carefully centered, made her carry it inside and sit down at the kitchen table before she opened it.
Under the paper was a velvet box, worn bald at the corners. She knew that box. She'd seen it exactly once in her life — a photograph of her mother's hand, laughing, a ring catching the light at someone's backyard wedding twenty-one years ago.
Her fingers fumbled the clasp. When it finally gave, the ring inside was dulled with age but unmistakable. She turned it toward the window and found the engraving, worn thin but legible: R + G, 5.14.
Her mother's ring. The one that had vanished the week Rosalind Faraday died, twenty years ago, when Imogen was five — the one the old police report called "presumed stolen in the confusion following the incident."
Imogen's hands shook so hard the box nearly slid off the table. That was when she saw it — a folded slip of paper that had fallen out with the box, resting against the sugar bowl like it had always been there.
She unfolded it. Five words, handwritten, unsigned.
*It was never actually lost.*
Behind her, the stairs creaked. Someone was awake.