[ 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 ...

I gazed at the face of my wife, who looked so serene in her coffin of velvet and mahogany. There were a million things I wanted to say to her. To apologize for the constant arguments, to compliment her beauty, to remind her that the Gregsons were visiting next Tuesday. Most of all, to tell her I loved her, and I would miss her. And to tell her goodbye. 
 
 None of the words got past the lump in my throat. After opening and closing my mouth noiselessly for several moments, I retreated to my chair, feeling the eyes of everyone on me. The pastor took it as a cue to continue speaking. 
 
 Tuning out his voice, I touched the ring on my finger and wept. Angela never liked jewelry; especially if said jewelry let us feel each other ’ s heartbeats all the time. She called it tacky and invasive. I thought it was romantic. I pestered, wheedled and cajoled. We fought, and then she agreed to wear it on the condition that we took them off whenever we had sex. 
 
 All that no longer mattered. The gentle, rhythmic throb, that let me feel as though her heart was just next to mine, was gone. I thought my own heart would stop, the day hers had only minutes before a stranger called me with her phone, and told me she ’ d had a heart attack on a street corner. 
 
 Since she hadn ’ t said anything about being buried with it, I left it on her finger. It had been a symbol of our love; an unspoken promise that we would keep our hearts beating for one another. 
 
 Now, it was just an unremarkable band of metal. 
 
 *** 
 
 My alarm rang. I grabbed it and threw it onto the floor, where it bounced and continued to screech at me. 
 
 Groaning, I sat up in bed and rubbed my eyes. The smell of alcohol and unwashed clothes permeated my room. My belly burned with acid; I hadn ’ t eaten since the morning before, and I stumbled into the washroom to throw up. 
 
 Like every morning for the past three months after her burial, I stood in front of the sink, closed my eyes, and pressed the finger tight against my skin, desperate to feel something other than cold steel. 
 
 If she was still alive, she would probably not recognize the skull-like face staring at me from the mirror. And then she ’ d yell at me to shave that ridiculously shaggy beard, get a haircut and eat some supplements. 
 
 I shook my head and began to wash up. None of those things mattered to me. Not my friends, not my job … nothing. In truth, I knew I was being foolish. Hurting myself this way would n't bring her back. But I could n't help myself. 
 
 Slick from water and soap, the ring suddenly slipped from my finger and tumbled onto the floor. I yelped and stooped to pick it up, but as my fingers drew close, it rattled. 
 
 I dropped on all fours and held my ear close to it, not daring to breath, willing my own heart to stop just so I could hear it and be sure. The ring lay inert on the floor, water seeping off it into a puddle. Minutes passed, and my hope faded away. I ’ d imagined it. 
 
 It shivered. I screamed and ran for my phone. Thumbing through the screens, I selected the Heartthrob app I hadn ’ t opened since she ’ d passed. When it finished loading, I turned on GPS tracking and waited impatiently for it to display her ring's location. What the hell was happening? Had someone dug up her grave and stolen it? 
 
 Or had the last three months been some sort of horrible dream, and she ’ d been playing a prank on me? Maybe it hadn ’ t been my wife at all, just some lookalike who happened to have her ring on when she died. Maybe— 
 
 Wherever the ring was, it was no longer in Greenfield Cemetery, but somewhere on Mirton Lane, where some abandoned flats were. Sparing no time to think about why it was there, I gathered ring, phone and keys, and rushed for my car. 
 
 About an hour later, I parked my car in front of the derelict building her ring was in. Other than a few tattooed youths smoking around a vandalized payphone nearby, the street was deserted. Despite my trepidation, curiosity made me abandon caution, and I dashed into the building without waiting. 
 
 Inside, it was dark, and smelled strongly of rot. The ring seemed to pulse even stronger now, though I knew it was actually my own wildly beating heart. The story of Frankenstein entered my mind, and I hurriedly tried to banish the images of my wife as someone ’ s sick experiment. 
 
 On the third floor, I heard the soft scrape of shoes on the bare wooden floor, coming from behind a door left slightly ajar. Excited though I was, I had enough sense to not barge in, but to creep forward and carefully open the door. 
 
 In the middle of the room sat Angela. Her eyes went wide when she saw me, and she struggled all the harder against the ropes around her. The gag on her mouth muffled the noise she made, and her zip-tied legs kicked furiously at the floor. 
 
 “ What? You ’ re alive? ” I said before my brain started up again. 
 
 She glared furiously at me, the same way she did whenever she wanted my help with the groceries while I was glued to my PS4. Pure joy erupted in my heart as I rushed to tear the tape off her mouth. 
 
 “ You shouldn ’ t even know I ’ m here! ” she said, as I worked on her restraints. 
 
 I blinked, stung by the harsh tone. “ I … I felt your heartbeat. After three months, I thought— ” 
 
 “ You romantic fool, ” she said, looking at my hand. “ Of course you ’ re still wearing it. ” 
 
 Still too stunned by the miracle to feel angry, I threw my arms around her. By then, the ropes had loosened enough for her to pull free, and she quickly shoved me away so she could untie her feet. 
 
 “ How? ” I said. 
 
 `` I'm back in town for an assignment, but my enemy captured me. He found my ring and put it on out of curiosity, and you probably felt his heartbeat.'' She sighed as she stood. “ I ’ m … not who you think I am. This is my job. ” 
 
 “ It ’ s a pharmacist ’ s job to get kidnapped? ” I said. 
 
 “ My real job, ” she began, but went still and put a finger to her lips. I followed her gaze to the door just as it opened to admit a black-suited bear of a man. He bellowed, and then the handle of a screwdriver suddenly sprouted from his eye. He screamed, flailing and retreating, until he backed into the flimsy banister and toppled out of sight. 
 
 Angela dusted her hands off and headed to the door. Shaking in fright, I stood and pointed accusingly at her. “ You ’ re … you ’ re some kind of secret agent, like in those damned movies, aren ’ t you? You faked your death, and left me to mourn in vain. ” 
 
 Tears began spilling out of my eyes. “ Was everything a lie, then? Our marriage, our life? Our love? Don ’ t you know how much I missed you? Say something, goddammit! ” 
 
 She paused in the doorway, and said, `` I think I should return this to you.'' I couldn ’ t speak; could only watch as the ring rolled to a stop against my shoe. 
 
 “ I … I still wore it, you know, ” she said, voice cracking. “ Everyday, when you were asleep. I had to listen to your heart. I had to know you were okay. ” 
 
 And then, she was gone. 
 
 *** 
 
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