In a dilapidated attic, he huddled in a corner, surrounded by broken furniture and a few pieces of clothing. The hole in the ceiling let the cold wind howl in, dancing with the numbers on the cracked laptop screen in front of him.
"The big one is coming, the big one is coming." He whispered softly, with a tremor in his voice, as if praying for the future, and also as if mocking the fickleness of fate. His eyes were fixed on the social media on his laptop, looking for any flash signals about airdrops, and the look of despair and desire was like a classic scene in an absurd play.
His pockets were empty except for a document with a full hand of TX. Every time a new message was refreshed on the screen, his heart lifted, hoping that it was the announcement he was looking forward to.
