The Last Coin

My grandfather, Elias, was the anchor of my childhood. He was the one who taught me the proper way to skip stones, the secret to perfecting a peanut butter and jelly sandwich (a thin layer of honey, he insisted), and the art of finding shapes in clouds. Every Friday, after he picked me up from school, we would stop at the old candy shop on Maple Street, and he would let me pick out any three candies I wanted. He called it our ‘Friday ritual.’ My father was away for work most of the time, and my mother was always busy, so it was just us, Papa and me, against the world.

When I was ten, Papa started to slow down. His hands, once so steady, began to tremble, and his voice grew softer. The doctors said it was a disease that would slowly take his strength, and within nine months, he was confined to his bed. I remember the last time he spoke to me clearly. He pulled a worn copper coin from his pocket and pressed it into my palm. ‘This is my lucky coin,’ he said, his breath rattling. ‘It’s been with me through everything. Keep it with you, and I’ll always be watching over you, even when I’m gone.’ He passed away on a rainy Tuesday, and I clutched that coin like a lifeline.

Three months after his death, I was lying on the couch in our living room, the coin in my pocket, when I heard a faint scraping sound coming from the kitchen. I got up and found the refrigerator door slightly ajar, and on the counter, a single candy wrapper—the kind from the shop Papa used to take me to. I thought it was odd, but I didn’t think much of it. That night, I placed the coin on my nightstand and fell asleep. In the deep of the night, I felt a cold draft and woke to see the coin glowing softly on the nightstand. As I watched, the glow pulsed, and I heard a faint whisper, ‘Friday.’

On Friday, I decided to follow my old routine. I walked to the candy shop, even though it had closed down a month ago. The windows were boarded, but as I stood there, I heard a creak from the alley. I stepped into the alley and saw a door that hadn’t been there before. It was ajar, and a dim light spilled out. I pushed it open and entered a small, dusty room filled with jars of candy, all of them covered in a thick layer of grime. A hunched figure stood behind the counter, its face hidden in shadow. ‘You’ve come for your treat,’ it rasped, and slid a single piece of candy toward me. It was a dark, glossy coin-shaped piece. I reached for it, and as my fingers touched it, the figure’s hand snapped forward and grabbed my wrist. ‘He didn’t tell you, did he?’ it hissed. ‘The coin is a promise. You’ll take his place, bound to bring a child here every Friday for eternity.’

I yanked my hand away and ran out, the candy clutched in my fist. I didn’t stop until I was home. I tried to throw the candy away, but it kept reappearing in my pocket. That night, I heard Papa’s voice, not in my mind but from the coin itself, echoing through the room. ‘I’m sorry, boy. I had to. But I promised to watch over you, and I will—from inside the coin.’ I looked down at the coin, and for a second, I saw his face reflected in its surface, twisted and desperate. ‘Every Friday, you’ll be drawn to a new child. And you’ll give them the same choice I gave you. It’s the only way to break the curse—find a child who refuses the candy.’ I wept, because I knew I was trapped, and the coin pulsed in my hand, warm and alive.

Now, I am fifteen, and every Friday, I find myself walking to a different shop, a different door, a different child. I offer them the candy, my heart pounding, hoping they won’t take it. Most do, and I see the subtle shift in their eyes, the same knowing that befell me. But I haven’t lost hope. I carry Papa’s coin, and I search for a child who will look at me and say, ‘No, thank you.’ And when I find that child, I will crush the coin, and Papa will be free, and I will be free, and the Fridays will finally end.