The morning dawned as many others had, soft and unremarkable, yet within its quiet hours, an undercurrent of mystery stirred. Abby sensed it, though she could not name it. There was talk of Ryan's parents arriving from distant parts, and a gathering planned for the next day—an alleged barbecue, or so it seemed. Yet whispers had reached her ear, strange tidings urging her to make herself ready, to adorn her hands with well-tended nails, though the reason was cloaked in secrecy. Ryan, with his familiar and steady presence, arrived as he often did, guiding her to a place of old memory: the Morning Thunder, where they had first dined together. They broke bread in the cool light of morning, and as they spoke, Abby’s mind was clouded with doubt. Ryan, with an air of casualness, let slip that their long-sought engagement would yet be delayed, for he was still gathering the gold needed for a ring. Unbeknownst to her, the treasure had been won some six months past. His words, well-timed, lulled her suspicion to rest, and so they journeyed on. Their next stop was the theater, a realm of stories both familiar and strange, which they enjoyed in shared company. When the tale had ended, they sought sweet solace at Schubert’s, where cold, creamy confections eased the warmth of the day. It was then that Ryan, ever one to carry with him tools of flight—his drone—spoke of Honey Run, a place where river and sky met. He wished to capture its beauty, and Abby, content in his plans, agreed. Upon arriving at the river's edge, the air was cool and quiet save for the murmur of the waters. Ryan, with deft hands, prepared his drone, and asked Abby if she would sit upon a nearby rock, where the river could frame her form. She obliged, and as she did, he approached her. And then, with little of the grace that such a moment might have warranted, he knelt—one knee to the earth—his voice faltering in speech he would soon forget. From his hand, he drew forth a ring, gleaming like some long-lost heirloom, and in that moment, the course of their tale was set. What was said or done after is now bound in the threads of history, to be remembered always.