As a child, I was convinced my grandfather was the ultimate example of human stinginess. He didn’t merely save money—he waged war against spending it. He washed and reused disposable plastic bags, carefully tore paper towels into smaller pieces to stretch their lifespan, and treated electricity like a precious, vanishing resource, shutting off lights the moment someone stepped out of a room. Going out to eat with him was always mortifying; he’d quietly stash sugar packets and condiment wrappers in his pockets while complaining that the portions were too small to feed a bird. Every Christmas followed the same script: I’d unwrap a thin, itchy pair of socks, still bearing a brightly colored clearance tag he’d only half removed.
So when he died and the family attorney handed me a sealed envelope labeled “For My Grandson,” my expectations were low. I imagined a lecture about frugality or a list of stores with unbeatable discounts. Instead, inside was a single object: a coupon. It offered $100 off any in-store purchase, had no expiration date, and featured a brand name I’d never heard of. The paper was thick and cream-colored, printed in faded red ink with an odd logo—a simple triangle cut by a single horizontal line.
My cousins inherited tangible things—cars, bonds, land. I walked away with a slip of paper that felt like one last joke. I kept it in my wallet for days out of stubborn sentimentality. Yet every time I reached for my credit card, that unfamiliar symbol caught my eye, quietly demanding attention. Eventually, curiosity won.
The address led me to a nearly abandoned strip mall on the outskirts of town, wedged between a bleach-scented laundromat and a flickering nail salon. The store itself looked outdated, its sign crooked, as if forgotten by time. Inside, it resembled a bargain department store: buzzing fluorescent lights, waxy floors, the smell of cheap detergent. I grabbed a few basic items—nothing special—just to justify being there.
At the register, I handed over the coupon. The cashier scanned my items without interest, but the instant she touched the cardstock, she froze. Her face went pale. Without saying a word, she urgently called for her manager.
He arrived—a tired-looking man with graying hair and the posture of someone worn down by years of routine. He examined the coupon closely, even smelling it, and then stiffened. “Where did you get this?” he asked quietly.
When I told him it belonged to my grandfather, he said nothing more—only motioned for me to follow him. We passed through a restricted door into a small, windowless office. From a locked cabinet, he pulled out a battered binder labeled: LEGACY COUPONS — LEVEL 7. He flipped through until he found a match. “1972,” he murmured. “Only five ever existed.”
He explained that decades ago, the founders had run an experiment. These coupons weren’t simple discounts—they were triggers. He showed me old photographs of the original holders. In one of them, I recognized my grandfather: young, sharp-eyed, holding the same coupon. Some recipients found fortune, others opportunity—and one disappeared entirely after trying to sell it.
“The coupon doesn’t force a future,” the manager said. “It reveals possibilities. What you do with it is up to you.”
When I returned to the sales floor, everything felt different. The store no longer seemed cheap—it felt loaded with unseen potential. I wandered past the groceries toward a dusty display case in the back. Inside sat an antique camera—brass, leather-worn, heavy—with a handwritten price tag: $99.99.
I knew immediately. At checkout, the register reset to zero when the coupon was applied. Outside, the camera hummed faintly in my hands. I raised it and pressed the shutter. No flash. Just a deep, internal thud.
That night, reality began to bend. Photographing my door summoned a mysterious black car moments later. Photographing my reflection briefly transported me somewhere ancient and wild before snapping me back.
Later, I found my grandfather’s journal hidden in a false-bottom suitcase. It revealed the truth: the camera didn’t capture moments—it captured possible futures. He hadn’t lived frugally out of fear, but caution. He had spent his life hiding from those who wanted the camera back, waiting for the right successor.
The next morning, a photo emerged on its own. It showed me, older, calm, standing before a glowing vault. A note beneath it read: You are the fifth.
That’s when I understood. His true gift wasn’t money—it was choice. A way to navigate fate itself. I packed my bag, took the camera and journal, and left. I don’t use the camera for greed or harm. I use it only when the path ahead is unclear.
Some inherit wealth. I inherited possibility.
I am no longer just a grandson.
I am the keeper of the fifth path.