$PI A while ago, I was tidying up the desk, and found a sticky note under the keyboard. It was all crumpled. On it, there was a string of letters—uppercase and lowercase mixed together—along with a few numbers. And the last three characters were written especially sloppily—RAVE. After that came a number, 314519$.
$Pi
I pinched it and stared at it for a long time; it was like electricity was running through my head. Back around the beginning of the year, people in the group kept shouting every day that Pi was the next hundredfold coin, a Web3 music revolution, a collaboration with Jay Chou—things they made sound so convincing. I followed the FOMO, woke up in the middle of the night, and bought fifty thousand at $0.02. Afraid I’d forget, I casually tore off a piece of sticky note and wrote down the wallet seed phrase. Twelve words—I wrote the first eight, and the last four were probably thrown off by someone—maybe the delivery arrived, or maybe a groupmate kept shouting buy orders—so they sat there blank.
I stared at those eight words and the words “Pi314519,” and my hand was a little shaky. The rest of what happened is something everyone online knows now. RAVE surged past 3 dollars, slipped into the top twenty by market cap, and thousands of coins were worth over a hundred thousand dollars back then. Later, it crashed back down to a little more than one. The whole internet saw liquidation on a scale of tens of millions, and fake news about the “dog whale” being arrested also spread everywhere.
But whether it was those million-plus—or now, just a few tens of thousands—it has nothing to do with me anymore. The twelve words can’t be put together, and this wallet will never be opened. Those 50000 Pi are locked behind those eight words, lying there quietly, turning into a box that will never be opened.
$pPi I held the sticky note and sat for a while, feeling something I can’t quite put into words. Not heartache—after all, I’m already almost forgetting when I bought it, and those 50000 are just a blurry number. It’s just that it’s kind of interesting: the thing I wrote down on a whim back then turned into a wall, and I even forgot what the key is supposed to look like.
I folded the sticky note over. On the back was another thing I’d written down at the time, a crooked little line of text: milk, eggs, bread.
Below that, there was also a parenthesis, saying don’t forget.
I do remember this one. That day, I really did go to the supermarket. The eggs were bought on discount, the bread was whole wheat, and the milk was buy-one-get-one. When I carried the bag home, it pinched my hand painfully. That breakfast was satisfying enough to fill me up.
I folded the sticky note and tucked it back under the keyboard. That string of seed words missing its tail, those 50000 RAVE, that money that almost made me rich and almost made me go to zero—let it keep lying there. Not being able to open it is fine, too. At least the milk, eggs, and bread—I’ve already eaten them.
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