[ WP ] You and your wife wear rings that let you feel each other 's heartbeat . Your wife dies and is buried with the ring on , and you always wear the ring in memorial to her . One day the ring turns on again ...

We had these rings, Marie and I. Every time her heart would beat, I ’ d feel a little squeeze on my ring finger, the little band of metal contracting and warming. It was like music, steady and constant, a north star guiding me through the stormy seas of my life. I felt it skip when I told her I loved her. I felt it slow when she slept. I felt it warm when we talked about the kids we ’ d have. 
 
 I felt it stop, when she died. 
 
 It was supposed to be a simple operation. I sent her into the operating room with a smile on her face while we talked about what dinner we would go get after to celebrate her triumph over her physical woes. Even the surgeon had seemed relaxed, his paper mask drawn down under his chin as he slowly explained the procedure. Very little risk of complications, he said. 
 
 I felt her heart slow as they pumped her veins full of drugs, and she fell asleep for the last time. Then I waited, sitting on a bench, watching the red words above the door. Surgery In Progress. Her heart beat steadily, rhythmically, as if it had no concern for the scalpels that pierced her and the forceps that pried her open. I was just about to pull out a book and do some reading, still thinking about dinner, when the ring went cold on my finger. 
 
 I stared at it. Grabbed it, flicked it. I was sure it had broken. There was no way that Marie could just *stop*. Then, the ring throbbed violently, the whole thing jolting and contracting painfully on my finger. I cried out, clutching at it. It happened again. Then again. I thought about removing the ring, but I had promised Marie that I would keep it on, that I would be there for her during her operation. I was still holding my hand, wincing, when the surgeon pushed open the door with a pale face. 
 
 “ I ’ m sorry, ” he said. 
 
 Even then, I somehow fooled myself into thinking she was alive. 
 
 & nbsp; 
 
 She was buried still wearing the ring, and I never removed mine. A promise made to a living person could be broken, but a promise to the dead took on a whole new tone. It was sacred. It went from vow to holy writ. I hoped that wherever she was she could still feel me, and every day I lived with the hope that I would feel that little squeeze again. 
 
 It knew it was stupid, but I had dreams about it coming back. Nightmares, too. Some started one way, and ended up the other. I ’ d always wake up, breathless and clutching at the empty space in the bed beside me, my eyes searching desperately for any hint of a smile that had long since been buried. 
 
 It was summer, when it happened. Marie had been dead for eighteen months. I woke up in the dead of night, her embrace still lingering from the dream, and I felt the ring pulse upon my finger. I shook my hand, irritated, thinking it another phantom come to harass me. 
 
 And it pulsed again. 
 
 I stopped. Froze. Stared. My mind began to race as I felt the steady thrum of another heart against my hand. It wasn ’ t possible. However, no amount of assuring myself that it couldn ’ t be true stopped it from happening. The heartbeat pattered on. A little quicker than I remembered. A little lighter, but undeniably there. 
 
 I was in my car almost before I knew what I was doing. I flew down dark streets beneath a star-splashed sky. I ignored traffic lights and speed limits alike, reaching the cemetery in a flat five minutes that felt like eighteen months, stumbling out of my car and forgetting to lock it as I bolted for the plot. 
 
 Like in so many dreams, the earth had been turned. Fresh soil lay in a heap beside a crude pit that dug down to Marie ’ s coffin. Light was seeping up from it, celestial and faint. I could feel the heartbeat quickening against my hand, and my own raced until I felt it in my throat. My eyes. I could feel the story forming in my head. I ’ d tell people how I found her, sitting up, rubbing the grave dirt from her eyes and asking me why it took me so long. We ’ d laugh. We ’ d be on the news. We ’ d be— 
 
 A lanky man with coarse hair looked up at me from where he was cowering in the grave. Thankfully he had shut the lid, but I recognized a number of pieces of Marie ’ s jewelry upon his person. Her sapphire necklace hung around his grimy neck, and her lace and gold-thread gloves were shoved into a tattered pocket. On his finger, her little ring was shoved over sallow skin. 
 
 He stared up at me with wide eyes, and I felt my dreams go rancid in my mouth. I leapt down, landing on the coffin with a dull thud beside the would-be grave robber. He scuttled back, plastering himself against the dirt wall, stammering apologies, and I knew that I was going to rip him apart. I took a step forward, but when I tried to take another I felt all the fight go out of me. I was like a dandelion puff, and a wind had scattered me bare. I fell to my knees, and wept. 
 
 The man seemed too confused to do anything. I could feel his heartbeat slow from panic to confusion. 
 
 “ Ey, uh, ” he muttered, shuffling forward a few steps. “ You okay, man? ” 
 
 I glared up at him. “ You ’ re wearing my wife ’ s jewelry, ” I snapped. 
 
 He paled, shuffling his feet. “ Aw shit. ” He looked at the box under out feet. “ Well she don ’ t need it anymore, do she? ” 
 
 My eye twitched, and I furiously rubbed the tears from my face. “ She what? ” 
 
 The man shrugged. “ I just mean… it ’ s just… ” He drew in a deep breath. “ It ’ s my daughter ’ s birthday tomorrow, see? And me, I don ’ t make the money to give her the things she deserves. My ex wife, she does, but I don ’ t. ” He spat, making sure to send the wad of saliva just clear of the coffin. 
 
 I rose to my feet, eyeing the man. Conversations with Marie came flooding back to me, little echoes that dancing like fireflies in my mind. 
 
 *I think I ’ d like a girl. * 
 
 *A girl? How would I play catch with a girl? I ’ d have to buy dolls and dresses and—* 
 
 *Don ’ t be a smartass, I ’ m serious. * 
 
 *Maybe I ’ m serious. * 
 
 *Maybe we should find out, after the operation. * 
 
 “ — ‘ n you see, ” the man was prattling on, “ I really thought it through, because I didn ’ t want to rob nobody. I didn ’ t want to hurt nobody, so I thought, I just thought, well the dead get buried with all these fancy things and they don ’ t need them, right? So I thought… maybe my little Alice could… you know… ” 
 
 I stared at him for a long time. He was filthy. A real derelict of a man, with my wife ’ s ornamentation hanging off him. It was like a bad joke, but at the same time I couldn ’ t help but imagine Marie sitting with a child, passing on those same ornaments. She ’ d have insisted in giving her daughter everything. 
 
 Truly everything. 
 
 “ What do you do? ” I asked. 
 
 The man shoved his hands into his pockets, his lips tightening into a thin line. “ What don ’ t I do? ” he asked. “ Dry cleaning, janitorial work, burger flipping, anything and everything to scrape a dime, ya know? ” 
 
 He was filthy. His clothes were frayed to tangled rags at the ends of his sleeves, and dirt clung to him like a brown cloak. His hair tangle of hair was shoved back off his sweaty brow, and his dry lips were cracked and red. I felt his heart beating against my hand, warm and steady. 
 
 “ How ’ d you like to work for me? ” I asked. 
 
 The man blinked. His heart stuttered. “ I, uh, ” he stammered, “ I don ’ t… that is, what sort of work do you do? ” 
 
 “ Landscaping and architecture, ” I said. “ I could use an assistant. My wife used to help out, but she… well. She passed on. ” 
 
 “ That ’ d be— ” 
 
 “ Don ’ t misunderstand, ” I said. “ You ’ ll be working to pay off those things you stole out of the grave. We ’ ll take some cut of your salary to put down toward them until you ’ ve covered the value. ” 
 
 The man blinked, then nodded, slowly. “ If it ’ s for Alice, ” he said, “ I ’ ll do anything. ” 
 
 I could feel his heartbeat, steady and determined. A father ’ s love, calm against my hand. And I knew it wasn ’ t for me. I reached down, and pulled the ring off my finger. The man blinked, staring at the ring on his own hand, then back to me. I held out the little band of metal to him. 
 
 “ Save the other things for now, ” I said. “ Give this to your daughter. ” 
 
 He took the ring, turning it over between his fingers. “ Thank you, ” he said. 
 
 I gave him a final look, and a nod. “ What ’ s your name? ” 
 
 “ Bernard. ” 
 
 I smiled. “ Bernard. Tell your daughter happy birthday for me, all right? ”
