Seven sighed. He picked up his scissors. “Fine. But if I get possessed, you’re paying for the exorcism.”
Seven grinned. “Finally! A customer! Sit, sit.”
Seven looked at the floor. The translucent coin was still there. He picked it up. It felt warm. Scissor Seven -2018-2018
“It’s a prank,” Seven whispered. Then, louder: “Ma’am, what style?”
She began to fade. Not in a tragic way—more like a photograph left in the sun. Her edges turned to gold dust. Seven sighed
“Scissor Seven,” she said, her voice the sound of a music box winding down. “I need a haircut.”
“Wait!” Seven called. “What’s your name?” ” Seven whispered. Then
The woman slid an envelope across the counter. Inside: a single, translucent coin. Ghost money.