Coins of Time

It was in the crumbling attic of his grandfather’s house that Julian first found the coin. Dust covered everything—trunks of forgotten war medals, moth-eaten coats, faded letters tied with ribbon—but the coin lay on a small velvet cloth as though it had been waiting.

It was heavy, strange. Too smooth to be old, yet the markings on it were unmistakably ancient: a lion on one side, a strange compass-like sun on the other. Around the edge ran an inscription in Latin.

Julian couldn’t read Latin, but he knew enough to recognize the last word.

Tempus. Time.

He pocketed the coin without thinking.

His grandfather had died two weeks before, and the house—brick and ivy-wrapped, with creaking floors and rooms that smelled like parchment and pipe smoke—was to be sold. But Julian, twenty-eight and unemployed, was allowed to stay a few nights longer while the estate was settled.

That night, he lay in the guest room, the coin turning over in his fingers. The house groaned with age. Trees scratched the windows. Somewhere deep inside, the old grandfather clock struck midnight—though no one had wound it in years.

And then it happened.

The moment the twelfth chime rang out, Julian blinked—and the world tilted.

Suddenly the moonlight outside looked different. He ran to the window. The cars on the street were gone. Gas lamps flickered where electric lights had stood. People in waistcoats and long skirts walked quietly below.

It wasn’t a dream.

He had traveled back in time.

He spent exactly one hour there. Enough to walk the unfamiliar streets of his own town, decades younger. Enough to realize no one could see him.

And then—just as the sixty minutes passed—he was back. The coin was warm in his hand.

The next day, Julian scoured the attic again and found a letter tucked behind a portrait. It was from his grandfather, addressed “To the one who finds the coin.”

“The coin was given to me during the war, by a dying man in a ruined city. He called it a gift and a curse.

Each time you use it, you get one hour in the past.

But not to change anything. Only to see.

Be warned: every journey costs something, even if not at first.

Use the coin wisely—or not at all.”

Julian didn’t heed the warning.

He used the coin again the next night—and the night after that.

In his third journey, he watched his mother as a child, running through the yard barefoot while his grandfather carved birds from wood.

In his fifth, he visited the café where his parents first met. He saw them laugh, awkward and young, long before their marriage turned bitter.

In his seventh, he stood by his grandfather’s side in a field hospital in 1945 and saw the wounded man press the coin into his palm.

With each trip, Julian grew quieter. More distant. The present seemed dull in comparison. Job offers went unanswered. Bills stacked up. He lost track of days.

He became obsessed.

One evening, he tried to go back to a moment more personal—his own childhood. He longed to see his father, who had died in an accident when Julian was ten. As he held the coin and waited for midnight, he whispered, “Just this once, let me speak to him.”

The clock struck twelve.

He found himself in his old living room, the scent of pine and baking bread in the air. Christmas lights blinked lazily on the tree. His father sat on the floor, assembling a toy train. Ten-year-old Julian stood nearby, beaming.

It was too much.

He knelt beside his father and said softly, “Dad…”

For the first time, someone looked directly at him.

His father froze.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he whispered. “You broke the rule.”

Julian recoiled. “You can see me?”

His father looked heartbroken. “Go back. Now.”

And then everything shattered.

He awoke on the attic floor. The coin lay split in two beside him.

The house was silent—but different. Older. Colder.

Julian stumbled downstairs. The rooms were bare. Dust everywhere. Windows boarded. No lights, no furniture. As if the house had been abandoned for decades.

He walked outside. No one noticed him. No one answered when he shouted. He tried to touch a passerby. His hand passed through them.

He was no longer in the present.

He was no longer in time.

Years passed, though he didn’t age. He watched new families move into the house, never seeing him. He tried to write, but the paper never held his ink. He tried to scream, but the air swallowed his voice.

And still, in the attic, the broken coin remained.

One day, a girl—no older than he had been—climbed into the attic. She moved with the wonder of discovery, brushing aside cobwebs and cracked boxes.

She saw the coin.

She picked it up.

And for a moment, her gaze flicked past the room—and landed on him.

“Hello?” she said.

Julian smiled.

And slowly shook his head.

“No,” he whispered, though she couldn’t hear. “Leave it. Let time keep its secrets.”

🌙 End.

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