A while back, I was tidying up my desk, and I pulled out a sticky note from under the keyboard. It was wrinkled. On it was a string of letters—some in uppercase, some in lowercase—along with a few numbers. And the last three letters were written especially sloppily: RAVE. After that came a number: 50000.

$RAVE ‌
I held it and stared at it for a long time. It was like electricity was running through my brain. Back around the beginning of the year, people in the group shouted every day that RAVE was the next hundred-times coin, a Web3 music revolution, a collaboration with Jay Chou—everything was said in the most extravagant terms. I got swept up in the FOMO, crawled out of bed in the middle of the night, and bought fifty thousand at $0.02, afraid I’d forget. I tore off a sticky note and quickly wrote down the wallet mnemonic phrase. Twelve words—I wrote the first eight, and the last four were probably interrupted and thrown off by someone—maybe the delivery had arrived, or maybe a group member was calling out trades again—so they just sat there blank.

I stared at those eight words and the words “RAVE 50000,” and my hands were a little shaky. Everything that happened afterward is already known across the whole internet. RAVE surged past 28 dollars, and by market cap it climbed into the top twenty. Back then, thousands of coins were worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. Later, it smashed back down to a bit more than a dollar, and across the network, liquidations in the millions were triggered—rumors that a “dog whale” was arrested spread too, false as they were.

But whether it was those millions back then, or these tens of thousands now, none of it has anything to do with me anymore. I can’t make this wallet complete enough—it will never be opened. Those 50,000 RAVE are locked behind those eight words, lying quietly there, becoming a box that will never be opened.
$RAVE ‌
I sat for a while with the sticky note in my hands, and I had a feeling I couldn’t quite put into words. It wasn’t heartache—after all, I’d already almost forgotten when I bought it, and those 50,000 were also just a blurry number. It was just that it felt interesting: the thing I’d casually written down back then had turned into a wall, and I even forgot what the key looked like.

I flipped the sticky note over. On the back was another thing I’d written at the time, in a crooked line: Milk, eggs, bread.

There was a bracket underneath, with a note inside it: don’t forget.

I remembered that one. That day, I really did go to the supermarket. I bought eggs that were on discount; the bread was whole wheat; the milk was buy-one-get-one. When I carried the bag home, the bag handles dug into my hand and hurt. That breakfast left me really full.

I folded the sticky note and slid it back under the keyboard. That string of mnemonic words missing its tail—those 50,000 RAVE—along with that money that almost made me rich and almost went to zero: let it just keep lying there. It being impossible to open it is fine, too. At least milk, eggs, and bread—I’ve already eaten them and put them in my stomach.
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