Sliver of tile from that hotel in Prague that no longer smells of her blood. Blackened fragment from the last mirror that held his reflection. Pieces of harpsichord string, more rust than solid, a dried-out fountain-pen nib, shredded lace, a doll's teacup.
His prize possessions. Always locked away.
No rings, jewels, or even daggers. Just pieces of him that she wouldn't understand. No obvious presents, no gift to make things better, nothing that is actually worthy of her.
Regret swirls with hate and despair. He safely stores the box away again anyway.
Then he buys the ticket to Africa.