Margen
The first peseta turned up on a Tuesday, among the cents of her change. Sara handed it back; Genaro, the news-stand man, apologised and gave her a proper coin. The following week there was another. Then another. Always in her change, never in anyone else's: she even took to discreetly watching the other customers.
She stopped returning them. She kept them in a jam jar, without counting them, the way you keep things that have no explanation but do no harm either.
One morning the news-stand woke up with a sign: CLOSING ON FRIDAY. THANK YOU FOR EVERYTHING. On Friday Sara came down with the jar. She didn't know why; she took it the way you take an umbrella when the sky turns strange.
Genaro held out the last newspaper. She emptied the jar onto the counter. He counted the coins without any surprise, one by one, like a man collecting a payment deferred long ago.
"One hundred and twenty-five," he said. "Exact. Same as the first one I ever sold."
And he gave her the change: a brand-new cent, shiny, dated next year.