When my grandfather and my mother passed away, our family did what every family eventually does — we started going through their things.

After sorting through the furniture and clothes and books, everything in the drawers and kitchen and garage, we finally got around to the jewelry.

Most of it was forgettable, even when it was technically valuable. Pieces that had been worn once or twice. Gifts without stories. Objects that never quite became part of someone’s life.

But there were a few pieces that stopped everyone.

We remembered seeing them worn. We remembered where they’d been worn. We remembered them wearing them. No one had to explain why those pieces felt different.

In my mother’s will, every piece of jewelry was left to my niece — except three. Those were named individually and given to specific people. Everyone understood why. They weren’t just items. They were recognitions of her, of a life well lived.

I had experienced that feeling years earlier with my grandfather. I watched him get dressed for a formal dinner and put on a pair of black onyx and gold cufflinks. I asked him about them, and he told me their story.

His father had them made during the Depression, when money was tight. It was an extravagance. But he believed in looking sharp, and he believed they would be passed down.

When my grandfather told me those cufflinks would one day be mine, it stayed with me for decades. They were the only thing from his estate I truly cared about. I still think of him every time I put them on.

Silver State Foundry exists because of moments like that.

Not to make more jewelry —
but to make fewer pieces that actually matter.

The Vault exists to hold pieces made with this standard in mind.

Not every ring belongs there — only those intended to be worn, remembered, and eventually claimed by someone else.

If you’re looking for the kind of piece people recognize without explanation, you’ll find it there.