I watched the roulette wheel turn at 3 a.m., alone in my London flat, after another sleepless night. The rhythm of samba, the glow of carnival, the math of chance—it all felt like a ritual I didn’t sign up for, but quietly lived through. This isn’t about winning. It’s about how silence holds meaning when luck feels like a ghost you never named. I write not to sell hope—but to remind us we’re not broken by volatility.