lastcoinband

On the city square waiting for a flood, somewhere between the tiles, sheltered beneath ice and sand, standing on its edge, there's a grey coin expecting its new finder.
No doubt, someone sees it, wipes it clean and appraises it before sliding it deep in the pocket.
How long the voyage takes -- that's a secret. Maybe it ends up in a store checkout or clenched in the hungry vagabond's palm or waits half a year just to be dropped into a fountain of a faraway town.
Yet maybe it skips all the travelling slipping through a pocket-hole back onto the city square and doing a slow rollaway into somewhere between the tiles to find shelter in the never-ending ice and sand.