Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
Harold Wexley had long been known as a man of chance, a stochastic gentleman in the truest sense. Every decision he made was determined by a roll of the dice. It is also a flip of a coin, or even the pull of a card from his always on-hand deck. From his morning coffee to his afternoon walk, these decisions were all governed by chance. He couldn’t help himself; he believed the universe spoke best through randomness.
Harold’s peculiar habits started in childhood, much to the frustration of his parents. When asked whether he wanted vanilla or chocolate ice cream, he had a peculiar method. He would spin a top to let its direction decide his fate. By adulthood, his stochastic tendencies had taken total hold of his life. He never planned meetings but let a shuffled calendar decide his day. His wardrobe choices were dictated by pulling slips of paper from a hat. Even Harold’s relationships were governed by chance. If a coin landed on heads, he’d go on a second date. If it landed on tails, he’d never call again.
One day, Harold found himself at an unfamiliar café. That morning, he drew a card from his well-worn deck. It led him three blocks further than his usual haunt. He sat down with his coffee—black, no sugar. The choice was dictated by the number he rolled. He noticed a woman sitting across from him, watching with curiosity. She had auburn hair, a sharp gaze, and a half-smile that suggested amusement.
“You look like a man who just lost a bet,”
She said, sipping her latte.
“Not lost,”
Harold corrected, pulling a die from his pocket and rolling it across the table.
“Just after fate.”
She watched as the die landed on a four. Harold nodded. He reached for a muffin from the café’s showcase. It was as if he had just received permission from the universe.
“And if it had been a five?”
She asked, tilting her head.
“No muffin,”
He replied, taking a bite.
She chuckled.
“So, does chance decide everything for you?”
Harold hesitated. For the first time in years, he found himself unsure. The habit had become so ingrained that Harold had never considered questioning it. But as he met her gaze, something unfamiliar stirred—a wish to choose, not just to follow.
“Not everything,” he admitted, slipping the die back into his pocket.
“At least… not today.”
And for the first time in as long as he remembered, Harold decided without rolling, flipping, or shuffling. He asked for her name.
She smiled.
“Clara.”
He extended a hand.
“Harold.”
The universe held its breath, waiting. But for once, Harold ignored it.
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