The Ring of Direction

Orkney, 1963 — Early Morning. Isobel MacLeod held the silver ring to the soft light spilling through the small window of her Orkney cottage. The arrow engraved along its band caught the glow, pointing steadily forward, its edges worn smooth by decades of handling. The silver was cool against her skin, and she traced the line with a fingertip, imagining the journeys it had witnessed — paths through peat-strewn fields, the hush of wind across the cliffs, footsteps over stone and grass. The ring had been forged in the early 1960s, a simple token meant to mark direction, to guide the hand that wore it. Isobel slid it onto her finger and felt the weight settle, grounding her. The arrow did not speak aloud, but it spoke nonetheless, a quiet reminder that every choice, every step, moves forward, even when the way is hidden. Strength, she realised, is not in knowing the road, but in trusting the hand that follows the mark. The ring pointed, and she moved.