The Last Bet

It was a gray evening in Paris when Julien entered the small café on Rue des Martyrs. The rain tapped against the window, soft and relentless, like time reminding him he was running out of it. He had one last envelope of cash — ten thousand euros — all that remained of his father’s inheritance.

Across the room sat Marc, an old friend turned stranger, sipping a glass of wine with the calm arrogance of someone who’d already lost too much to care. “One last game,” Marc said, sliding a deck of cards across the table. “Double or nothing.”

Julien hesitated, then nodded. The café lights flickered. Outside, the city kept breathing, indifferent. The cards fell one by one, silent, deliberate. When the final card turned, Julien’s heart sank — the ace was not his.

Marc smiled faintly. “You were never lucky, Julien.”

Julien left the café without a word. The rain had stopped, but the streets were empty. He reached the bridge over the Seine, looking at the black water below. The city shimmered in the distance — cold, beautiful, unreachable.

That night, the current carried away a man who had once believed fortune was a matter of chance.