It was the kind of snowstorm that makes the world shrink to the size of your living room. The third one that February. I was officially snowed-in, stir-crazy, and had exhausted every streaming service known to man. My apartment felt less like a cozy haven and more like a very pleasant, well-furnished prison. I’d even resorted to alphabetizing my spice rack. Oregano. Paprika. Rosemary. It was a dark time.
My phone buzzed. It was my sister, Mia, calling from Arizona, where it was presumably seventy-five and sunny. “Are you alive in your igloo?” she chirped. We talked for a while—her about hiking, me about the existential dread brought on by my fourth viewing of the same cooking show. “You need a project,” she declared. “Or a hobby. Something that doesn’t involve cumin.”
After we hung up, her words echoed. A project. Right. I looked around. The spice rack was done. My eyes fell on my bookshelf, specifically on a worn, leather-bound journal from my grandfather. He’d been an amateur Egyptologist, a true enthusiast. I’d inherited his books and his notes, but never really dug into them. Too busy. Well, time was now a commodity I had in excess.
I pulled out the journal. His handwriting was a meticulous cursive. Sketches of pyramids, hieroglyphs, notes about the “Book of the Dead.” It was fascinating. I fell down a rabbit hole, cross-referencing his notes with online articles. For a few hours, I wasn’t in a snowbound apartment; I was in the Valley of the Kings.
As the light outside faded into a bluish-gray gloom, I made tea and opened my laptop. The research had put a phrase in my head: “Book of Ra.” The sun god. I typed it into a search engine, not really expecting anything. Alongside the scholarly links, I saw a different kind of result. A slot game. A popular one, apparently. I smirked. The juxtaposition was funny. From my grandfather’s scholarly notes to a digital slot machine. A modern-day, silly interpretation of ancient myths.
Curiosity, the same one that led me to the journal, nudged me. What did this look like? I clicked. It took me to a gaming portal.
Vavada online was one of the options. The design was clean, not overwhelming. It felt like the digital equivalent of a well-organized library compared to some of the garish sites I’d glimpsed. I remembered creating an account on a similar platform ages ago during a different bout of boredom. On a whim, I tried my old credentials. To my surprise, it worked. A small, dormant balance greeted me—maybe five dollars left over from that previous life.
This felt like fate. Or at least, a very amusing coincidence. I had the “Book of Ra” from my grandfather’s world in my hands, and the “Book of Ra” from the
vavada online world on my screen. I had to see it. Just for fun. A visual comparison.
I loaded the game. The graphics were actually quite beautiful. Golden sands, pyramids in the distance, a haunting, atmospheric soundtrack. My grandfather would have hated the concept but might have appreciated the art direction. I set the bet to the absolute minimum. This wasn’t playing; this was anthropological study. A cultural comparison. At least, that’s what I told myself.
I clicked spin. The reels, decorated with scarabs, pharaohs, and the iconic Book itself, turned with a satisfying parchment-like rustle. Nothing. Another spin. A small cluster of scarabs. I was effectively burning through my forgotten five dollars at a glacial pace, entertained by the sounds and the strange connection to my afternoon.
Then, on what I’d decided would be my last “research spin,” something changed. The reels stopped with two Book symbols. The third reel slowed… hovered… and landed on a third Book. A deep, resonant gong sounded from my speakers. The screen transformed. My grandfather’s journal was right there on the desk beside my laptop. This felt profoundly weird.
“Free Spins Awarded: 10.” The words gleamed. The game shifted. The music became more urgent. I wasn’t a researcher anymore. I was a participant. Each free spin carried a random multiplier. The wins started small, then, on the fifth spin, the symbols aligned perfectly. Ankhs, Eyes of Horus, and a wild symbol that was my grandfather’s face—no, just a pharaoh, my eyes were tricking me. The win counter erupted.
The number in the corner of the screen, that forgotten five-dollar remnant, began to swell. It became fifty. Then a hundred. Then more. I wasn’t breathing. I was just watching a digital excavation, uncovering a treasure in my own living room. The free spins ended. The final total sat there, glowing softly. It was a sum that could pay a significant bill. Or buy a very nice piece of art. Or fund a trip.
A trip.
The word echoed. The snow hissed against my window. Arizona. Mia. Sun. The ancient Egyptians worshipped the sun for a reason.
I cashed out. The process was simple. The money arrived in my account two days later, just as the snowplows finally cleared our street. I didn’t spend it on anything immediate. I let it sit. And then I booked a flight.
Last month, I visited Mia. We drove to the desert. We watched the sunrise over the red rocks. It was silent, vast, and breathtaking. I brought my grandfather’s journal with me. Sitting there in the cool morning air, the first rays warming my face, I felt a connection that spanned ridiculous distances. From his careful notes, to a snowbound afternoon, to a whimsical click on a
vavada online game, to here. The desert. The real Ra.
The money was a fantastic surprise. But the chain of events it set off? That’s the real prize. It broke the cycle of my cabin fever and propelled me toward an experience I’ll never forget. It gave me a story that ties my grandfather’s passion, a freak snowstorm, and a sunrise in the desert together in a way that makes me smile every time I think about it. Sometimes, the universe sends a message. And sometimes, that message is delivered through a silly slot game during a blizzard, telling you it’s time to go see the sun.
