My grandpa was the stingiest man who ever lived.
My grandfather was famously frugal, so receiving only a decades-old, $100 coupon from his will felt like his final, fitting joke. The coupon was for an obscure store, printed on stiff cardstock with a strange logo.
Out of curiosity, I visited the designated store. When I tried to use the coupon, the manager reacted with startling gravity. He escorted me to his office and revealed it was one of only five ever printed in 1972 as part of a confidential founders’ program.
He explained that the four other coupons, when redeemed, had catalyzed extraordinary, life-altering events for their users, ranging from immense fortune to mysterious disappearance. Mine was the fifth and final unredeemed coupon.
Guided by a strange compulsion, I used it to purchase a dusty, antique camera from a clearance case. The manager processed the transaction with palpable unease, and the total came to zero.
The camera, however, proved to be no ordinary object. It began to function on its own, taking photographs that didn’t capture the present, but instead altered reality or transported me to other places and potential timelines.
Investigating my grandfather’s belongings, I found his journal. It detailed his own experiments with the camera, confirming its power to navigate branching possibilities, and his deliberate choice to guard it by appearing merely miserly.
I now understand his legacy. The coupon was a test, and the camera is a tool of immense responsibility. I use it sparingly and with caution, having learned that some of life’s most profound opportunities are disguised as simple, almost discarded, things.
