A soft drizzle fell on the cracked pavement, blurring the glow of the streetlights into hazy halos. Mike pulled his hoodie tighter around his face and adjusted the plastic bag in his arms. The late shift at the convenience store had ended later than usual — the register jammed again, the new hire had forgotten how to restock the freezer, and the manager pretended not to notice that Mike did everything himself.
It was fine. He didn't mind staying late. He liked the quiet when the city thinned out — just the hush of tires on wet asphalt, the distant bark of a stray dog, the flicker of neon signs trying to stay alive.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, probably his mother telling him to come straight home. He ignored it for now. The rain always made him walk slower. He liked how it softened the city's edges, made everything look half-awake.
Halfway down an alley — a shortcut he always used, though his mother hated it — he stopped. Something glimmered near the old brick wall, where the runoff trickled through a rusted drain. It could have been a broken bottle or a bit of foil, but as Mike stepped closer, he realized it didn't look like trash at all.
It was a coin. Large — older than any currency he'd seen — worn so smooth it almost looked melted around the edges. Strange symbols curled across one face, half-faded by time.
He glanced around. No one. Just the steady whisper of the rain.
Mike crouched, balancing the bag on his knee, and picked the coin up. It was cold — so cold it almost burned his skin. He turned it over, brushing away grit. For a moment he thought he saw the faint outline of an eye engraved in the metal — but when he blinked, it was gone.
A shiver crawled up his arm, and he dropped the coin. It hit the wet pavement with a dull clink, rolled in a lazy circle, then stilled at his feet.
He should've left it. He knew he should've left it. But the longer he stared, the heavier the night felt — like the street was holding its breath. Maybe it was the tiredness. Maybe it was something else.
He slipped the coin into his pocket.
At home, the lights were off. His mother's slippers by the door, his little sister's textbooks stacked like leaning towers on the coffee table. The smell of leftover soup lingered in the kitchen.
Mike placed the coin on his desk before bed. He turned it over once more under his lamp — still cold, still oddly smooth. He pressed his thumb against the faint symbols, half-expecting them to shift under his touch. They didn't.
It's just an old coin, he told himself.
He slid it into the top drawer and shut it away. Outside, the rain drummed softly against the glass. Mike lay awake longer than usual, listening to the hush of water and the distant echo of sirens.
When sleep finally came, he dreamed of cold stone corridors that stretched on forever — and a door that pulsed like a heartbeat in the dark.