For twenty years, the weight of my father’s legacy has rested against my collarbone—a simple silver band etched with intricate geometric engravings. I was only six years old when he passed away, leaving me with memories that feel more like fragmented dreams than solid reality. I have flashes of him, brief and bright: the rumble of his laughter, the scratch of his pen as he sketched feverishly on restaurant napkins. But the memory that remains most vivid is the day my mother placed his ring in my small palm.
I was eight years old at the time. She retrieved it from a small, polished wooden box and looked at me with a seriousness that made me sit up straighter. She told me that my father had worn this band every single day of his life, and that he wanted me to have it when I was old enough to grasp its significance. Back then, I didn’t truly understand. I simply strung it on a chain, wore it around my neck, and let it become a part of me, largely forgotten in the bustle of daily life. That is, until the afternoon I saw a billionaire wearing the exact same ring.
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