It was never given — it was taken, snatched from a velvet-lined box in a house already crumbling into dust. Once, the bracelet had adorned finer wrists, polished to catch the firelight. But when the debts came calling and the masters fled, she stayed just long enough to claim it — a final scrap of a life that would never be hers.
Bronze and steel, plain and unremarkable to any but her, carried the weight of stolen memory: the sound of silks whispering down marble halls, the scent of beeswax and cold stone. She wore it always after, not with pride, but with the grim knowledge that even ruins can be carried, link by link, into a new life.
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