planning to order nothing and leave. Then I saw it: a small cardboard sign by the register—
“Coffee and sandwich, pay with any coin. No questions.” My hand shook as
I laid the rusty coin down. The barista smiled like I’d given her gold, not trash. That meal didn’t fix my life, but it proved something had survived the firing:
I wasn’t worthless. And as long as I could feel that coin’s scar on my palm, I wasn’t done yet.
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