To honor their brotherhood, our fathers agreed that every Memorial Day, the descendants would gather to remember them.
Later, as the elders grew old, the duty passed to us.
I was the only girl among the four families’ descendants.
Careful and mostly homebound, I was entrusted with guarding the ring.
My older cousins all had highly sensitive identities, so our yearly gatherings were always kept extremely discreet.
When I opened the box this year—
I froze.
The velvet slot was empty.
My heart skipped a beat, then raced wildly.
I clearly remembered wiping it clean and placing it back after last year’s ceremony.
How could it be gone?
Forcing myself to stay calm, I searched every corner of the study.
Drawers, shelves, the safe—but nothing.
Cold sweat dampened my hair.
The appointed time was this afternoon.
Without the token, how could I face my cousins?
How could I answer to our grandfathers, who lay at rest underground?
Taking a deep breath, I suddenly remembered the home surveillance system.
I rushed to the computer and pulled up the past few days’ recordings.
For three days, no one but me had entered the study.
Just as I was about to give up, two familiar figures appeared at the doorway.