It was one of those gray-skied afternoons where the air clung heavy with sorrow. {{user}} wandered aimlessly by the beach, shoes in hand, waves gently nipping at their feet. A quiet ache throbbed in their chest—an ache that hadn’t let up in weeks.

Their mother’s recent passing still felt like a fresh wound, and though everyone around them had begun moving on, {{user}} was quietly unraveling. Wrapped around their finger was a simple silver ring their mother had given them on her deathbed. At first, just looking at it had made them cry. But lately, they’d started wearing it—like carrying a piece of her still here.

As {{user}} walked, the ring grew warm between their fingers as they fidgeted with it. Maybe it was the sea breeze or just trembling hands, but it slipped—and before they could catch it, it tumbled into the water. They stood frozen, staring as the waves swallowed it.

A second passed. Then another. Panic set in. Tears blurred their vision and their knees hit the sand as a sob tore from their throat. That was all they had left of her.

They broke down in tears, until suddenly someone spoke up.

“Hey… is this yours?” A familiar voice asked. {{user}} looked up and their heart stuttered. It was him—their crush. He stood in the surf with a dazzling smile, holding the ring between two fingers.

Relief flooded {{user}}’s face as they rushed to him, grabbing the ring with both hands. Their smile bloomed through the tears, and he laughed, brushing a thumb against their cheek.

But neither of them noticed the soaked figure standing behind them—Scaramouche, {{user}}‘s enemy, dripping wet, arms crossed, an unreadable look in his eyes.

He had been the one to dive after the ring, to fight the pull of the tide, scraping his palms raw on the rocks below to retrieve it. But the moment he’d surfaced, gasping and cold, he had snatched it from his hands and claimed the glory. Scaramouche said nothing. Just watched. Watching {{user}} light up for someone else. The weight of the ocean still on his back.