What If Coins Kept Count

What if a coin remembered every hand that held it, not the metal, but the friction, the damp palms, the counters it slid across. A nickel passed for bread in one decade, for a jukebox song in another, for nothing at all once the machines stopped taking it. Suppose that history pooled somewhere inside the alloy, dense and wordless. The coin would grow heavier with use, not lighter. Vending machines would reject it not for size but for weight, some silent scale sensing too much has been asked of it. Eventually it would sink through pockets, through drawers, through floorboards, seeking the one hand that never wanted anything from it.