The storm hit on a Friday afternoon, which meant everyone in the office spent the last two hours staring out windows, refreshing weather apps, and collectively willing our boss to send the early-release email. When it finally came at three o'clock, the building emptied faster than I'd ever seen. People practically ran for their cars, eager to beat the worst of it home. I was one of them, weaving through traffic, watching the first flakes start to fall, feeling that childish excitement that snow still brings, even at thirty-seven.
I made it home just as the storm really kicked in. By six, the world outside my window had disappeared into a swirling white void. By eight, the power flickered once, twice, then died completely. I sat in the dark, wrapped in blankets, listening to the wind howl, feeling very small and very alone. The apartment grew cold quickly. I dug out every candle I owned, arranged them on the coffee table, and watched the flames dance in the darkness.
The storm lasted all night and most of Saturday. When I finally ventured outside on Sunday morning, the world had transformed. Snow drifts reached halfway up my first-floor windows. The street had disappeared entirely. My car was a white hump in the parking lot, unrecognizable. I stood there, knee-deep in snow, and realized I wasn't going anywhere. Not today. Probably not tomorrow either.
By Sunday afternoon, the cabin fever had set in hard. I'd read an entire book by candlelight. I'd organized my kitchen cabinets. I'd had long, one-sided conversations with my cat, who seemed increasingly concerned about my mental state. The power was still out, which meant no TV, no internet, no connection to the outside world. My phone battery was down to forty percent, and I was rationing it like emergency supplies.
Then I remembered something. A few weeks earlier, a coworker had mentioned an online casino during lunch. Not in a gambling context, but as a side thing, a way to pass time. He'd shown me the app on his phone, demonstrated how it worked, and encouraged me to
try platform sometime. I'd nodded politely and forgotten about it. But now, trapped in a snowed-in apartment with nothing but candles and a dying phone, his words came back to me.
I pulled out my phone, found the app he'd showed me, and downloaded it. The download took forever on my spotty cell connection, but eventually it finished. I opened it, created an account, and deposited twenty dollars. A small amount, intentionally small. I was paying for entertainment, not expecting returns.
The first game I tried was simple, a slot with a winter theme that felt appropriate given my circumstances. Snow-capped mountains, pine trees, a cozy cabin that looked a lot warmer than my actual apartment. I started spinning, the cheerful jingles from my phone a sharp contrast to the silent, frozen world outside. The first few spins were nothing, small losses, tiny wins. I kept at it, the rhythm of the game filling the empty hours.
Sunday stretched into Sunday night. I played on and off, conserving my phone battery by keeping the brightness low, playing in short bursts. My balance hovered around the original deposit, sometimes dropping to fifteen, sometimes climbing to twenty-five. It wasn't about winning. It was about having something to do, something to focus on besides the cold and the dark and the endless white outside.
Then, late Sunday night, something happened. I'd switched to a different game, something with an ancient mythology theme, all gods and temples. I was playing on a whim, not really expecting anything, when I triggered a bonus round I'd never seen before. The screen filled with lightning and thunder, and I was presented with a series of choices. Pick a god, win a prize. I picked Zeus. Lightning struck, and my balance jumped by fifty dollars. I picked Athena. Another fifty. Poseidon. Another.
The bonus round seemed to last forever, each choice bringing another reward. By the time it ended, I'd added over three hundred dollars to my balance. Three hundred dollars, from a twenty-dollar deposit made in a snowed-in apartment with no power and no hope of escape.
I sat there in the candlelight, staring at my phone, feeling something I hadn't felt in days. Warmth. Not physical warmth, but something deeper. The warmth of possibility, of luck, of the universe reminding me that even when you're trapped and cold and alone, good things can still happen.
The power came back Monday afternoon, just as the snow started to melt. I spent the day digging out my car, checking on neighbors, slowly reconnecting to the world. But part of me missed the quiet, the candles, the strange intimacy of those hours alone with nothing but a phone and a game.
When the three hundred dollars hit my account, I used it to buy a generator. A small one, just enough to keep the essentials running during the next storm. It arrived a week later, and I stored it in my closet, a reminder that I'd turned a disaster into something useful. A reminder that even in the worst circumstances, you can find a way through.
Now, when the snow starts to fall, I don't panic the way I used to. I make sure my generator is ready, my supplies are stocked, my phone is charged. And I think about that weekend, about the candles and the cold and the impossible win. I think about my coworker, the one who told me to try platform, and how that casual suggestion changed everything. I still play sometimes, usually on quiet evenings when I need to escape. And when the power goes out, when the world goes dark and silent, I know exactly what to do. I light my candles, pull out my phone, and remember that even in the deepest snow, luck can find you. You just have to be willing to take a chance.
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