A Cold Hand, A Broken Ring

The following Monday passed in a disorienting fog for Wells Barlow. He drifted through his classes in a trance, the hours blurring into one another. He found himself in English, dutifully transcribing notes on a lecture he couldn't recall, only for the scene to dissolve and reappear as a French classroom where verbs awaited conjugation. The time between had simply vanished. It was his friend Alexa who finally broke through the haze.

As they jostled their way through the crowded hallway after History, her voice cut through the din. "Wells, what is with you today? You're a million miles away."

"Am I?" Wells asked, his confused response only proving her point. "Sorry. I hadn't noticed."

"Don't be snippy," she replied calmly. "You just weren't yourself in class. I noticed."

Wells had always valued Alexa's remarkable composure. A sweep of chestnut bangs often veiled her delicate features, while the rest of her silky, deep-brown hair fell past her shoulders. She had a willowy build with long, graceful limbs, and her eyebrows formed soft arches over luminous hazel eyes.

"Sorry," Wells repeated as they navigated the river of students. "My uncle's funeral is tomorrow. I'm just… distracted."

Alexa’s expression softened with understanding. "Oh," she said, her voice gentle. "Aidan mentioned that the other night. How are you holding up?"

"About as well as you'd expect," Wells said, kneeling to fiddle with his locker combination. "It’s just hard to believe he’s actually gone."

"Yeah, I get that," Alexa said, leaning against the neighboring locker.

"It’s the worst feeling," Wells murmured, slowly pulling out his Chemistry textbook. "I keep half-expecting to wake up and discover this was all just a bad dream, that he's still here…"

Alexa gave his shoulder a reassuring pat and a grim nod. "Well, I'm here if you need to talk."

For the first time in days, he managed a genuine smile. "Thanks," he said. He stood, and they went their separate ways. Three more classes drifted by in the same state of vague detachment.

He had planned to sequester himself in his room for the afternoon, seeking refuge from his family—or at least from the Hackfords, who were still staying with them. He could manage his parents, but his aunt and uncle were another matter. His mother, however, had other plans. Fifteen minutes after he got home, she pulled him from his sanctuary, citing the need to be "polite to their guests."

Trapped in the living room, Wells feigned interest in the droning conversation between his mother and Aunt Elara. Even Uncle Trenton's apparent absorption in a heavy tome—a sight Wells had never before witnessed—was clearly a ruse; he was no more reading than Wells was listening.

For what felt like an eternity, Wells plotted his escape. Each time he so much as shifted to stand, his mother shot him a threatening glare. After his sixth trip to the bathroom in two hours, she finally cornered him in the hallway.

"What?" Wells said defensively. "I had to go."

"Don't give me that," his mother said in a low voice. "My sister didn't use the bathroom this much when she was pregnant with quadruplets. Your aunt and uncle are leaving today, and you've been sullen all weekend. Be polite."

Wells sighed in defeat. "Fine," he mumbled, following her back to the living room.

A reprieve came when Mr. Barlow returned from work. As his father hung his jacket in the closet, Wells saw his chance. "Dad," he began, "can you teach me how to tie my tie for the funeral tomorrow?"

His father, looking weary from his day, raised an eyebrow. "Well, alright," he conceded. "It's something every man should know, I suppose." Before his mother could protest, Wells bolted upstairs to his room, his father following a moment later.

"Alright, pick one out," Mr. Barlow said, sitting on the edge of the bed. Wells handed him a navy blue tie from his drawer. "Okay," his father said, "now watch me closely." He led Wells to the mirror and, with swift, practiced motions, fashioned an intricate knot.

"How am I supposed to follow that?" Wells asked with a laugh.

Mr. Barlow patiently guided him through the precise sequence of movements. Wells's first two attempts were disastrous, and the third was only a marginal improvement. The fourth devolved into an impossible snarl of fabric, but on the fifth try, he produced a passable knot.

"Thanks, Dad," Wells said, straightening it.

"Anytime, son," Mr. Barlow replied. He sank back onto the bed with a heavy sigh.

"Something wrong?" Wells asked, removing the tie and placing it back in the drawer.

"The Hackfords, what else," Mr. Barlow said. He took off his glasses and set them on the nightstand, closing his eyes. "Your Uncle Trenton isn't happy about Jonas leaving you the ring."

A wave of nausea washed over Wells. This was the one topic he’d been desperate to avoid. He swallowed and tried to sound casual. "Why? Did he want it?"

"No, just the opposite," his father said. "He thinks you should sell it to help cover the funeral costs."

I didn't hear that part yesterday, Wells thought. "Why?" he asked aloud.

"Some nonsense," his father said with a dismissive wave. "About the ring being the cause of your Uncle Jonas's… eccentricities."

Wells let out a short, incredulous laugh. "The ring made Uncle Jonas weird?"

"That's what Trenton claims," Mr. Barlow said. "Though how he'd know is beyond me. Jonas had that ring since he was eighteen."

"Well, too bad. Uncle Jonas left it to me," Wells declared, sitting defiantly on the bed beside his father. "It's mine to do with as I please."

"Good. I'm glad we agree," Mr. Barlow said. He put his glasses back on and sat up. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to change out of these work clothes."

The rest of the evening blurred together, followed by a night of fitful dreams starring Uncle Jonas. It felt as if he had barely closed his eyes before his mother was gently shaking him awake at six-thirty.

Groggily, Wells pulled on his dress pants and suit coat, fastening the tie just as his father had shown him. As he ran a hand through his hair, normally a tangled mess in the morning, he paused. A small, rebellious part of him, certain his uncle would have approved, left the defiant mess untouched. He stumbled downstairs and slumped onto the living room sofa to wait.

Once everyone was ready, the somberly dressed Barlows and Hackfords split into two cars and drove to the funeral home. Wells yawned, pressing his cheek against the cool glass of the window. He found himself wondering who scheduled a funeral for seven-thirty in the morning; Uncle Jonas, he felt, would have much preferred the afternoon.

A few other cars were already in the lot when they arrived. Wells and his mother went inside while his father parked. They were directed to a private room on the left, where a dozen or so people, including the local priest, Reverend James Larkin, sat yawning in the pews.

Soon, Mr. Barlow and the Hackfords joined them in the front row. The open casket was directly ahead, surrounded by a riot of colorful floral arrangements. From his seat, Wells couldn't see inside. With a knot tightening in his stomach, he stood and walked toward it.

Uncle Jonas looked ancient but peaceful, his face a deep map of wrinkles. His gnarled hands were folded over his stomach, and on one finger, the sapphire in his ring caught the dim light. Seeing it reminded Wells of the note. He pulled it from his pocket and approached the priest.

"Excuse me," he murmured to Reverend Larkin. "I have a note from Mr. Barlow. It says I'm to have his ring." He unfolded the paper and offered it.

Larkin's eyes narrowed as he scanned the paper. "Very well," the reverend said curtly, handing it back. "But be careful." He turned away, muttering something about disrespect for the dead.

Wells returned to the coffin and gently lifted his uncle's right hand. It was shockingly, brutally cold, and Wells nearly dropped it. His own fingers trembled as he slid the ring from his uncle's finger. It came away with an unnerving ease, as if the skin had been oiled. After carefully repositioning his uncle's hands, Wells went back to his seat.

He examined the ring, and his stomach sank. This was not the object he remembered. The once flawlessly polished band was now tarnished, marred by a fine web of scratches. The sapphire, which he recalled as holding an inner fire, was now a dull, lifeless stone. What could have happened? Uncle Jonas had always been so meticulous with it.

He was tempted to show someone, to complain about the ring's ruined condition, but he held back. Instead, he furiously scrubbed the band with a handkerchief his father had given him. The effort was futile; the ring remained as dull and disappointing as before. With a surge of frustration, he shoved it deep into his pocket.