Strangers in the Night

In the fading light over Loch Fyne, the last of the supper dishes clinked softly in the kitchen of a small inn. Margaret Maclean dried her hands and polished a single silver spoon — an old piece marked Eureka Silver, its engraving of thistles gleaming faintly in the lamplight. It had belonged to her mother, who had once said silver holds memory better than paper. That night, as the rain began to fall, a stranger came in from the road — a writer from Glasgow with stories in his pockets and loneliness in his eyes. He stayed for tea, and when he left at dawn, the spoon was gone. Years later, Margaret received a parcel: the same spoon, now shaped into a ring, and a note that read, “For the kindness that made a wanderer feel at home.” The ring still shone like Highland rain — a token of love found not in forever, but in grace.