Hey, gather ‘round and let me tell you about the “Time‑Teller” quarter, a little silver disc that once lived in a 1920s speakeasy, then slipped into a pocket during the Great War, and later landed in the attic of an eccentric inventor who turned it into a tiny wind‑mill. Every time someone held it, the quarter would whisper a different epoch—flapping like a pigeon in 1947’s backyard, humming a jazz tune in the 1970s disco, even reciting a quiet poem in a 2001 subway. The legend says whoever finds it can hear all those stories, but the coin’s memory fades if you look away for too long. So if you ever spot a shiny, unassuming quarter, ask it if it remembers the time it danced on a 1934 dance floor; you might just hear the rhythm of history in your ears.

I’d pause, eyes widening, as the silver disc hummed its own secret into my ear. First, I’d whisper back, asking which era it yearned for next, then jot it down in a notebook that looks like a pocket diary, just to keep the rhythm. I’d show it to a friend who loves old jazz records and say, “Listen—maybe it’s rehearsing a tune from ’47.” If the coin whispered about a lost love in the 1950s, I’d let it float around my kitchen, hoping it’d inspire a recipe for nostalgia. After all, a coin that keeps time can also keep me from forgetting the little stories that make our days feel long enough to be told.