The Ring of Steadfastness

St Andrews, Fife — 1910 — Early Morning. Isobel MacLeod stood on the misted harbour stones, the sharp scent of salt and seaweed clinging to the air. The silver ring pressed cool and firm against her finger, its deep engraving of Peter a quiet weight in her palm. She had been given it by her father with a single charge: to hold what must not be dropped, to remain steady when all else moved. Boats rocked gently on the tide, gulls cried overhead, and she felt the ring anchor her hands, her shoulders, her presence. Steadfastness was not grand or loud; it lived in patience, in waiting while others faltered, in carrying responsibility without word or boast. When sunlight warmed the silver, it glinted faintly, reminding Isobel that to endure, quietly, could protect and sustain far more than action alone.