My grandpa was the stingiest man who ever lived.
After he died, I inherited a $100 coupon.

I thought about throwing it out, but instead I decided to use it.

It was the defining moment of my life.

Cashier: This is impossible. How did you get this??
Me: Uh… It was my grandpa’s…

The cashier stares at the coupon like it’s a bomb about to go off. She waves her manager over, her voice barely above a whisper as she says, “Look at the date.”

The manager, a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair and the kind of eyes that have seen too many coupon frauds, squints at it, then freezes. He flips the slip over, inspects the corners, even sniffs it. “Where did you say you got this?” he asks.

I’m half-expecting someone to yell “Pranked!” or for hidden cameras to roll out of the snack aisle. “It was in my grandpa’s will,” I say, pulling out the worn envelope it came in. “It’s legit. I think.”

He studies me with a strange intensity, then jerks his head toward a side door. “Come with me.”

“Wait, what?” I glance around. “Is it that serious?”

The cashier is backing away slowly like I’ve handed her a cursed object. The few people in line behind me are now pretending not to stare, but I catch the sideways glances. I shove the coupon into my pocket and follow the manager through a gray metal door labeled Authorized Personnel Only.

Inside, the hallway smells like mop water and stale coffee. He leads me into a small office filled with filing cabinets, a dusty computer, and a corkboard covered in yellowing notes and faded Polaroids. He shuts the door behind us.

“Sit,” he says.

I sit.

He opens a drawer, pulls out a battered black binder labeled Legacy Coupons — Level 7 Clearance Only and flips through pages until he finds an entry that matches my slip exactly. His finger lands on a line of faded text. “This coupon was issued in 1972. One of only five ever printed. We’ve been trying to track them down for decades.”

My jaw opens. “It’s… just a $100 coupon.”

He shakes his head. “No. It’s much more than that.”

He opens a locked cabinet behind him and pulls out a folder marked with a red stamp: CONFIDENTIAL — FOUNDERS’ PROGRAM. Inside are old photos, grainy black-and-white shots of men in suits holding the same style of coupon I have. One of them is my grandpa. I feel like the air has been knocked out of me.

“This coupon,” the manager continues, “was part of an early experiment our company ran in the ’70s. A promotional stunt mixed with a loyalty test. Only five individuals received these. Four of them redeemed theirs decades ago… and each time, something happened.”

I blink. “Something like what?”

He exhales. “One man redeemed it for a washing machine and ended up marrying the delivery driver. They started a billion-dollar appliance company together. Another cashed it in for groceries and found a rare coin in his bag — turned out to be worth over $3 million. The third guy? He tried to resell it on eBay. Disappeared without a trace.”

My heart thumps. “And the fourth?”

“Donated it to a charity raffle. The winner was a struggling single mom who used the $100 on baby formula… and was later invited onto a talk show for her story. She’s now a bestselling author.”

“And the fifth…” I whisper.

“You,” he says. “You’re the last.”

I sit back, mind racing. My grandpa never spent a penny he didn’t have to. This coupon — it was like Excalibur to him. And now, for some reason, it’s in my hands.

The manager leans forward. “You can redeem it now. But know this — whatever you choose to buy… matters.”

I try to laugh, but my throat’s dry. “This is insane.”

He doesn’t smile. “Is it?”

I leave the office with the coupon burning a hole in my pocket and my thoughts swirling like a tornado. I walk through the store differently now, every aisle a fork in the road, every item a potential destiny. Bread? Boring. Socks? Not life-changing. A weird novelty lamp shaped like a jellyfish? Tempting, but no.

Then I see it. A dusty glass case near the customer service desk labeled Collector’s Clearance. Inside sits a strange-looking object — an old camera, large and boxy, with a cracked leather strap and brass knobs. A tag hangs from it: Antique Camera – $99.99.

I ask the attendant about it. She shrugs. “No one’s touched that thing in years. I think it still works. Probably.”

I hand over the coupon.

The transaction goes through.

Something in the air shifts.

I don’t realize it right away, but the moment I step out of the store, the camera hums. Not audibly — it vibrates faintly in my hands, like it’s waking up after a long sleep. I raise it to my face, half-joking, and snap a photo of the street.

Click.

Nothing happens.

No flash, no sound, no photo.

But the world around me tilts.

The man walking past me — he suddenly stumbles, then spins around and stares at me. “Do I know you?”

“No,” I say, confused. “Why?”

“You look just like… never mind,” he mutters, walking off.

I shake it off and head home. The camera sits on my table while I scroll Reddit and question my sanity. Hours later, I aim it at my apartment window and click again. Still nothing. But when I look out the window, a car that wasn’t there a second ago is now parked directly below. A black sedan, engine idling, windows tinted.

Something’s off.

I step outside, pretending to take out the trash. The car speeds off the second I approach.

I run upstairs, grab the camera, and snap a photo of my hallway.

Click.

I open the door — and nearly scream.

There’s an envelope on my doormat. No name, no address. Just the same insignia that was on my grandpa’s will: a strange triangle with a line through it.

Inside is a note.

“Keep taking pictures. But choose carefully.”

My heart pounds. I take a picture of my reflection in the mirror — this time, the camera flashes. I blink, and when my eyes refocus, I’m not in my apartment.

I’m in a forest.

I spin around, panicking — trees stretch endlessly in every direction, birds scream overhead, and my legs shake. I grip the camera and take another photo, aiming at the nearest tree.

Click.

Just like that, I’m back in my apartment, gasping for breath.

I drop the camera. It clatters to the floor and lands upside down. I back away from it like it’s a loaded weapon.

My phone buzzes.

Unknown number.

“You’ve activated it. They know now. Run.”

The message vanishes before I can screenshot it.

The doorbell rings.

I don’t answer.

It rings again. Then pounding.

I grab the camera, aim at the door, and snap.

Click.

Silence.

When I peek through the peephole, no one’s there. Just a single shoe. Like someone vanished mid-stride.

I don’t sleep that night. I sit by the camera, waiting for it to do something on its own. It doesn’t. Not until the sun rises.

That’s when I see it.

A photo has developed.

I never loaded film.

But there it is — a blurry image of a room filled with people in dark robes, all standing around a pedestal. On that pedestal… is the camera.

My phone buzzes again.

“You’re next.”

I should be terrified. And I am. But I’m also burning with curiosity. I dig through my grandpa’s old belongings, looking for anything that might make sense of this.

And I find it — a leather-bound journal, hidden behind a false drawer panel. Inside are pages upon pages of sketches, diagrams of lenses and light beams, notes in his meticulous handwriting:

“Camera does not capture light. It captures potential. Photographs not what is, but what could be.”

Every entry ends with the same sentence:

“Take only what you’re ready to face.”

I take a deep breath, hold the camera, and ask out loud, “Why me?”

Click.

The camera fires on its own.

The photo slides out immediately.

It’s of me — older, worn, but smiling. Standing in front of a massive vault, light pouring out behind me. I’m holding the camera… and I’m not alone. Someone’s with me, but their face is scratched out.

I stare at the image for what feels like an hour.

Then I pack a bag.

I leave my apartment. I start snapping photos of streets I’ve never walked, doors I’ve never opened, choices I’ve never dared to make. Each click takes me deeper — into hidden places, conversations I was never meant to hear, paths I never knew existed.

And eventually, I understand.

My grandpa wasn’t stingy.

He was protecting this — hiding it in plain sight, waiting for someone ready to finish what he started.

I redeem a $100 coupon.

And I inherit the entire mystery of the world.

All because I didn’t throw it away.