Lydia Hart

Lydia Hart had only been in Hollowford for a week, but already the locals knew her as the coupon lady. She’d rented a little attic apartment for the summer, planning to spend her break sorting through the boxes of “treasures” she’d inherited from her grandmother. That’s how she discovered the true prize: a shoebox bursting with decades-old coupons. Sun-faded, printed in fonts no one used anymore, some offered discounts on products that had long since disappeared from shelves. Lydia was instantly smitten. Collecting them became a ritual. She’d spread them across her tiny kitchen table, grouping them by year, carefully pressing each one between pages of an old ledger. The paper smelled faintly of kitchens long gone—of cinnamon, old coffee, and Sunday dinners. One bright Saturday morning, she decided to take a few to the local grocer, just to see. She walked in with a cheerful smile, basket in hand, and when she reached the register, she slid the coupons forward like a magician revealing a winning hand. The teenage cashier blinked at a 1974 “10¢ off condensed milk” slip. “Uh… this expired… before I was born.” “Oh, I know,” Lydia said brightly. “But I thought maybe the charm would still work?” A woman in line stifled a laugh. An older man leaned over to squint, muttering, “Haven’t seen one of those in forty years…” Lydia accepted the confusion with good humor, gathering her ancient slips back into their envelope. “Guess I’ll just keep collecting, then,” she said, almost proud. As she left, sunlight spilling over her shoulder, the coupons rustled in her bag like little ghosts of shopping trips past. She wasn’t here to save money—she was here to keep the past from slipping quietly away.