It was the ring from the shop window.
The one he had shown me before leaving for the war.
“I bought it when I came home,” he said. “I carried it with me for years. I always imagined that one day, I would find you and explain everything. I never found the courage.”
I stared at the ring.
For one terrible moment, I was twenty-one again. I could almost hear his laughter, see his dark hair falling across his forehead, and feel his hand holding mine outside my parents’ house.
I wanted to take the ring.
I wanted to hold it and cry for the life we might have shared.
I also wanted to throw it against the wall.
Thomas watched me carefully.
“I don’t expect you to love me again,” he said. “I know I have no right to ask that. I just need to know that you can forgive me before I die.”
