Never Let Her Go

The sea crashed gently beyond the stone walls of St Andrews. Isla MacRae stirred her tea with an Apostle Spoon of St John — the apostle of love. Across from her, Andrew Sinclair traced the rim of his cup, struggling to find the words that would let her go. It was August 1889. They had met over borrowed books and seaside walks, and now the air between them was thick with all the things they wouldn’t say. Before he boarded his train south, she pressed the spoon into his hand. “To remember kindness,” she said. When it became a ring years later, the silver held the whisper of sea air and the ache of first love — pure, unfinished, eternal.