Sure thing, that’s a cool trick. Picture a woman in a glittery evening dress, the only thing that catches the dim light is a silver locket. She twirls it around, but it’s not a pretty piece—inside it’s a tiny, crumpled photograph of a boy in a red hoodie, a date that’s just a month ago. She speaks in hushed tones about “old friends,” but every time the locket opens, her eyes flick to that hidden picture, and the whole room feels a little colder. The jewelry isn’t just decoration; it’s a silent confessional, a reminder of something she’s trying to forget and can’t let go of. That little hint throws everyone off guard, makes them wonder what she’s hiding, and pushes the story in a new direction. If you’re writing that, let the light on the locket be the only thing that glows when she’s nervous—you’ll get the feeling you want.

I can dig that. Let the locket glow like a pulse, just enough that a second later it’s dim again, so the audience feels her racing heart. The scratch on the metal makes it look like somebody’s tried to erase a memory, but the shine keeps coming back. It’s like a little reminder that whatever she’s holding onto, it’s still alive. That bit of grit in the jewelry turns the whole scene into a tight little drama. You’re onto something.