The coin sat in the flour, a heavy, round eye staring up at me from the white dust. It was old, gold, and warm to the touch, but it felt wrong, like a stone pulled from a river that still carried the cold of the deep water. I am Elias, a miller in Oakhaven, and I have spent twelve years grinding grain for the town, my hands roughened by the grain and the water, my back bent by the weight of the millstone. I wanted only for my marriage to Clara to hold, for the roof to stay dry, and for the silence between us to remain a comfortable silence rather than a chasm. But the coin was a mirror. When I held it, I did not see gold; I saw my own face, gaunt and greedy, reflected in the polished surface. I told Clara I would bury it. She looked at me with eyes that were tired but sharp, and she said nothing. I dug a hole in the cellar floor, the earth dark and damp, and I pressed the coin into the dirt. I covered it. I went to bed.

The scratching started at midnight. It was a soft, dry sound, like a mouse or a rat moving through the straw. I lay awake, listening to the mill turn overhead, the water rushing past the wheel, and the sound in the cellar grew louder. It was not a rat. It was a scratching at the earth, at the boundary of my world. I went down. The cellar was dark. I found the hole I had dug. It was open. The dirt had been pushed aside, neatly, precisely. The coin was gone. I panicked. I felt the floor tilt beneath me. I believed I had lost my soul, that the coin had taken it with it into the dark. I ran out of the mill, my boots slipping on the wet cobblestones, and I went to Thomas, the blacksmith. His forge was still glowing, the air thick with the smell of hot iron and coal. I told him what had happened. I told him the coin was a curse. Thomas laughed. It was a short, dry laugh, not cruel, but dismissive. He said I was tired from the harvest. He said the mice were getting bold. He handed me a cup of ale. I drank it. It tasted like ash.

I walked home in the rain. The village was quiet, the houses dark and closed against the night. I entered the mill. Clara was waiting in the kitchen. She was sitting at the table, her hands folded in her lap. On the table lay the golden coin. It gleamed in the candlelight. I stared at it. I looked at her. She looked at me. She did not flinch. She said she had found it in the flour sack that morning. She said she had been saving it for a new roof. The roof was leaking. The water came through in the rain, and we had to put buckets down to catch it. I felt a shock, cold and sharp. I had told her I would bury it. I had buried it. She had found it. Or had she? I felt betrayed. I felt relieved. I took the coin from the table. It was warm again. I looked at Clara. Her face was hard. She was not crying. She was calculating. She was thinking of the shingles, the carpenter, the cost. I was thinking of the curse. We were two people looking at the same object and seeing two different worlds. I took the coin. I left the house.

I went to the town elder, a man named Halloway, who lived in a house at the edge of the village. He was old, and he claimed to know the old rituals, the ways of the land before the mill was built. I sat in his parlor, the air smelling of dried herbs and old paper. I put the coin on his desk. He did not touch it. He looked at it for a long time. He said it was a test. He said if I kept it, I would be rich, but I would be alone. If I gave it away, I would be poor, but I would be loved. I was torn. I looked at the coin. I saw my own face in the gold. I saw the fear in my eyes. I saw the greed. I stood up. I took the coin. I walked to the church. The church was small, stone-built, and cold. I left the coin on the altar. I felt a weight lift from my chest. I went home.

Clara was not there. The door was unlocked. The house was quiet. I found a note on the table. It was short. It said she could not live with a man who threw away their future. She said the roof was leaking. She said she was leaving. I sat on the floor. I listened to the rain. I went to Thomas. He was cleaning his hammer. He looked at me. He said Clara was right. He said I was not greedy. He said I was afraid. I had been holding onto the coin because I was afraid of being poor. I had been holding onto my marriage because I was afraid of being alone. The coin was not a curse. It was a mirror. It showed me what I was. I was a man who chose fear over love. I went to the church.

The church was dark. The candle on the altar was still burning. The coin was there. It was exactly where I had left it. I picked it up. It was cold now. I walked home. I found Clara in the garden. She was sitting on a stone bench, her head in her hands. She was crying. I stood in the doorway. I looked at her. I looked at the coin in my hand. I walked to her. I put the coin in her hand. I said, "It is yours." She looked up. Her eyes were red. She took the coin. We sat together in the silence. The rain had stopped. The air was clear. We did not speak. We did not need to. The coin was in her hand. It was heavy. It was gold. It was ours.

The next morning, I was in the mill. The sun was rising over the village, the light hitting the water and turning it to silver. The mill turned. The flour fell. I was grinding grain. My hands were moving. The coin was in my pocket. I felt it against my leg. I did not take it out. I continued to work. The sound of the mill was steady, rhythmic, like a heartbeat. I thought of Clara. I thought of the roof. I thought of the coin. I thought of the fear. I thought of the love. I did not know which one was real. I knew only that I was alive. I knew only that the mill was turning. I knew only that the flour was falling. I put the coin in my pocket. I went back to the wheel. I pushed. The water rushed. The stone turned. The day began.