Invisible hands were never enough.
So we imagined fingers — precise, deliberate, almost tender —
pressing on numbers that rise and fall like breath.
In the quiet hum of transactions, something flickers between chance and intention.
A gesture too exact to be random, too distant to be called will.
Fortunes bloom and collapse in the same motion,
as if guided by a touch that neither saves nor condemns —
only moves.
And somewhere between faith and calculation,
we keep watching the screen,
waiting to recognize the pattern
we already decided to believe in.
