Work or pleasure trip?

They all eventually will turn pro bitcoin

Explain?

nostr:nprofile1qqsthy887pf36j465w0ls5y32a6rf7m06whlnnacmgn4rx0zg845alcpp3mhxue69uhkyunz9e5k7qgdwaehxw309ahx7uewd3hkcayr7c9 you might appreciate this story working so closely to oppose this bill.

Newest story drop when the UK’s proposed digital IDs suffers a catastrophic cyberattack years after its implementation. Read how one man uses #bitcoin to restore order and give citizens freedoms the government never wanted them to have. Citizen Zero on nostr:nprofile1qqsfy7f8d0lms08wxw2xu4jvxcq2x2zqy6dgypksrh05p3jr9w4qhjcpzamhxue69uhkzarvv9ejumn0wd68ytnvv9hxgtcpr4mhxue69uhkummnw3ezumt4w35ku7thv9kxcet59e3k7mf0l86xkd https://stacker.news/items/1288089/r/GreaterthanFiction

Geesh! That’s messed up

You got this 💪🏾

Ship while you’re still embarrassed about it! That’s where the real development work begins

When the real world feels more like fiction, seek out fiction to find new paths forward.

A cautionary tale for couples where on personal doesn’t put in the effort to learn #bitcoin

nostr:nevent1qqsr9ccdgxrvst495aa9u5me4mpk4ptf3u7uf8p3nl7fwmf5tz2py6cpzemhxue69uhhyetvv9ujuurjd9kkzmpwdejhge8fv3x

His keynotes never disappoint

#Nostr

Terrifying but not surprising especially with everything that came out after COVID

I’d have to agree! A wrinkle of time in the grand scheme of things

The best roundup on SN!

What time difference do you think there is between those?

The next story drop, Proof of Love, is out.

Follow Anna and her daughter’s through one of the most difficult times in their lives-not only to unlock an inheritance of #Bitcoin she never bothered to understand, but become transformed in the process to learn what real wealth and love looks like.

Zap for more stories like this and share what you want to read next!

https://stacker.news/items/1277773/r/GreaterthanFiction

You are the king of posters!

Can’t wait

Latest story drop-The Cost of Certainty

Share and zap the stories you want to read more if.

———

When Mara Kim checked into St. Cypher Oncology, the intake nurse asked for her emergency contact.

She hesitated, then wrote: *None*.

It wasn’t true.

There had been someone once.

⸻

At thirty-eight, she was a paradox—young enough to still be mistaken for someone’s grad student, old enough to know she’d run out of time. Her hair had thinned from chemo, her wrists looked like glass. Yet her mind still hummed in code, mapping private keys and protocols while her body quietly failed.

Mara was one of the early ones. She mined Bitcoin back when the whitepaper still felt like rebellion. While her friends chased startup exits, she hunted sovereignty. And she won—early enough that she never had to work again, early enough that the world called her a “visionary.”

But she had built her life around the idea that trust was a vulnerability.

And in protecting herself, she’d locked everyone else out.

⸻

Eli had been the exception.

He painted, she coded. He lived in color, she lived in algorithms. They met at a hackathon in Berlin—he was designing visuals for a crypto art exhibit; she was there to give a talk on privacy layers.

He’d watched her speak like she was describing the future. Afterwards, he said, “You sound like you’re in love with the internet.”

She’d replied, “I’m in love with the idea that no one can own me.”

He’d laughed softly. “That’s not love. That’s fear.”

For four years, they built a life on parallel tracks—him sketching sunrises, her running nodes. He talked about having kids someday; she called it “biological centralization.” He joked that she’d raise a child in a Faraday cage. When Bitcoin hit $60k, he said, “You’ve already won, Mara. What’s left to prove?”

She’d said, “It’s not about proving. It’s about securing.”

But the real break came six months later, on an October night that smelled like rain.

⸻

He’d asked her to move the wallets to joint custody—not for the money, but as proof she could share control.

“It’s just signing together,” he’d said, sitting across from her at the kitchen table, a mug of tea cooling between them. “Like a marriage.”

She’d stared at the screen, cursor hovering over *Add Co-Signer*, and felt her chest constrict. What if he left? What if the exchange got hacked? What if he made a mistake and everything she’d built collapsed? What if—

“I can’t,” she’d whispered.

He’d looked at her like she’d just chosen a number over his face. “You mean you won’t.”

She’d meant both.

“Mara.” His voice had gone soft, defeated. “I’m not asking for your Bitcoin. I’m asking if you can trust me with anything that matters to you.”

She’d closed the laptop. “I do trust you.”

“No,” he’d said, standing. “You trust your cold storage more than you trust me. You trust your backup seeds more than you trust us.”

“That’s not fair—”

“Isn’t it?” He’d gone to the bedroom, moved slowly while packing, like he was waiting for her to stop him.

She’d wanted to. God, she’d wanted to. But her hands stayed frozen on the table, protecting the laptop like it was a living thing.

“I wrote you into my will,” she’d said desperately. “Twenty percent.”

He’d laughed—bitter, broken. “You think that’s what I want? Access to your keys?”

“Then what?”

“Access to *you*.” He’d zipped his bag. “But you encrypted yourself so thoroughly even you don’t have the password anymore.”

She’d wanted to scream that she was protecting them, protecting what they’d built. But he was already in the doorway.

“You know the saddest part?” he’d said. “You’re so afraid of losing, you won’t even play.”

The door clicked shut. She’d turned back to her screen—portfolio up 18% that week—and told herself she’d made the right choice.

She’d believed it for thirteen years.

⸻

The diagnosis came on a Tuesday, delivered by a doctor who looked too young to understand mortality.

Stage IV. Fast-moving. Terminal.

She didn’t cry—not at first. She did what she always did: she organized. She wrote a script to auto-distribute her holdings in the event of inactivity. She split her multi-sig wallet across continents. She set a dead man’s timer with redundancies and failsafes.

Then one night, sitting in her hospital bed surrounded by machines that beeped like block confirmations, she realized there was no one to inherit it. No one to explain the keys, the logic, the meaning.

No child to teach about sovereignty.

No partner to share the victory with.

Just numbers that would outlive her, scattered across the blockchain like encrypted gravestones.

She stared at her reflection in the dark hospital window—hollow eyes, pale skin—and whispered, “What was the point?”

The machines beeped their answer: nothing, nothing, nothing.

⸻

Clara, her night nurse, was the only person who dared to ask questions.

She was fifty-something, with kind eyes and worn shoes that squeaked on the linoleum. She worked three jobs, took the bus, had five grandkids who video-called every Sunday.

One evening, while checking Mara’s vitals, she said, “You don’t look like the type to be alone.”

Mara smirked. “Everyone’s alone. I just made it official.”

“That’s a hell of a philosophy.”

“It’s worked so far.”

“Has it?” Clara asked quietly, noting something on her chart.

That silence broke something open.

Mara watched Clara move through the room—efficient, gentle, humming something under her breath. “Don’t you regret not… building something bigger?” Mara asked.

Clara paused. “Honey, I built five somebodies. They’re loud, expensive, and I wouldn’t encrypt a single one of them.”

“But you could have—”

“Could have what? Made more money? Sure. But I would’ve missed soccer games. First words. The way my daughter looked at her wife on their wedding day.” Clara smiled. “I’m rich in a currency you can’t mine.”

Mara’s throat tightened. “I have nine figures in cold storage.”

“And I have five people who’ll cry at my funeral,” Clara said, not unkindly. “Different portfolios, sweetheart.”

That night, Mara lay awake calculating what she’d traded: Saturday mornings for portfolio rebalancing. Eli’s hand on her back for 2FA codes. The risk of a child’s college fund for the certainty of a Ledger buried across three continents.

She’d won the game by forfeiting the point.

⸻

A week later, she searched for Eli.

Not through people—through metadata. She combed old email hashes, defunct art blogs, transaction trails. She found a clue: a digital certificate attached to a piece of crypto art—*The Last Ledger*, signed “E. Raines – Reykjavík, 2027.”

So she went.

Her oncologist said the flight would kill her. She bought the ticket anyway.

⸻

The Icelandic coast was endless and white, wind tearing at her coat like it wanted to separate her from her body. She could barely walk from the rental car to the small arts residency built into the rock.

Inside, oil paintings covered the walls—sea, sky, light breaking through storm clouds. And in one corner, half-hidden, her face. Younger. Laughing at something off-canvas. Pregnant.

Her knees buckled.

The caretaker, a woman with paint-stained hands, caught her elbow. “You knew Eli?”

“I… was going to.”

“He left three years ago,” the woman said gently. “Went inland. Said he wanted to paint the aurora from the inside, whatever that meant.” She gestured to a desk by the window. “He left that. Said if a woman with scared eyes ever came looking, I should give it to her.”

On the desk sat a wooden box. Inside was a folded sketch of a woman at a keyboard, eyes lit by the glow of a monitor. Beneath it, a note in Eli’s handwriting:

*If she ever comes—tell her I learned to trust the light again. Tell her I forgive her. Tell her some keys are only worth keeping if you share them.*

Mara didn’t cry right away. She just sat on the floor, clutching the paper like a private key she’d forgotten the password to, and felt thirteen years collapse into this single, unbearable moment.

He’d imagined a child. Their child.

She’d called it inefficient.

⸻

Back home, the cancer spread like wildfire through dry code. Time blurred. Her body thinned, her hands shook, but her mind remained sharp—too sharp. Sharp enough to see clearly what she’d done.

She opened her cold wallet for the last time. On the screen, balances she’d once bragged were “world-changing.”

Now they just looked lonely.

She drafted four transactions:

1. One to a foundation teaching girls cryptography and sovereignty.

1. One to a decentralized cancer research project.

1. One to Clara—enough to retire, to stop riding the bus, to spoil those grandkids.

1. One to a single address that began 1ELI… An old wallet from their shared laptop, back when she’d believed in “ours” instead of “mine.”

When the prompt asked *Confirm transfer?* she hesitated.

Her reflection on the screen looked like a ghost—thin, translucent, already halfway gone.

For years she’d told herself she was saving for the future. But what future could exist without anyone to share it with? What was sovereignty if you ruled over nothing but silence?

She thought of Eli’s hands, paint under his nails, the way he used to say her name like it meant *home*.

She thought of the child in the painting—the one she’d dismissed as irrational, inefficient, human.

She thought of Clara’s five loud, expensive somebodies, and the wealth that couldn’t be mined or secured or encrypted.

Her eyes blurred. “Maybe I was wrong about everything,” she whispered.

She clicked *Send*.

Then she opened a text file and typed:

*I used to think Bitcoin was the proof I existed. But love was the proof I lived. I’m sorry I learned the difference too late. The password was always your name. —M*

She tried to find an address to send it to. But her hands were shaking too badly, and the room was getting dark, and she was so tired.

She closed her eyes.

Just for a moment.

⸻

When Clara came in the next morning, the monitors were quiet.

Mara’s laptop was open on the tray table, still glowing. On the screen was the unsent message, and below it, a completed transaction: *1ELI… 21 BTC. Status: PENDING.*

Clara read the message once, twice. Then she pressed her fingers to Mara’s neck—nothing—and, gently, reverently, hit *Send* on both.

The blockchain confirmed in six minutes.

Mara had been gone for four.

⸻

Three weeks later, Clara took a bus to a gallery opening in Portland. She’d found an email address through the crypto art certificate, sent the message, and gotten a reply: *Please come. I’d like to meet her one last time.*

The gallery was small, intimate. Paintings of light breaking through darkness covered every wall.

Eli stood in the center, older now, silver in his hair, paint still under his nails. When he saw Clara, he knew.

“She came looking,” Clara said softly. “Made it all the way to Iceland.”

His face crumpled. “Did she—”

“She learned,” Clara said. “At the end. She learned.”

He nodded, unable to speak.

Clara handed him a printed copy of the message and a hardware wallet. “She left you this. Twenty-one Bitcoin. I don’t know what that means to people like you, but—”

“It means everything,” Eli whispered. He turned the wallet over in his hands, then looked up at the painting behind him—a woman at a keyboard, surrounded by light, finally unafraid. “It means she finally figured out the password.”

Clara touched his arm. “She loved you. She just didn’t know how to hold onto anything without crushing it.”

“I know,” he said. “I painted that into every piece. I was waiting for her to see it.”

“She did,” Clara said. “In the end.”

They stood together in the quiet gallery, two people who’d loved the same ghost, and mourned the same lesson learned too late.

⸻

On the blockchain, the transaction from 1MARA… to 1ELI… would exist forever—a permanent record of trust, sent across time, confirmed too late to matter except as proof that she’d tried.

Some keys, Clara thought as she rode the bus home, you only learn to share when there’s nothing left to lose.

But at least, in those final moments, Mara had unlocked herself.

And that, perhaps, was the only wealth that ever mattered.

#bitcoin #trust

What a legend

Especially if you throw away your Bitcoin cold storage

Can you see any parallels today to this?

Egos are going to accelerate as fast as AI 😂

Have you heard of Turtle Twins? Love their content for kids

Thanks for your encouragement! It is something I’m considering publishing after a year’s worth of short stories. That’s wonderful you’re reading these types of stories to them. Does it engage an interesting discussion after (with the 6 yo at least)?

Inspired by nostr:nprofile1qyt8wumn8ghj7ct5d3shxtnwdaehgu3wd3skueqpz4mhxue69uhk2er9dchxummnw3ezumrpdejqqgzr08nkh7nk4q9cmw02wkfprkgtk0n8kgszlzyqe384ll3qv5rp453f6g5h Fiat Food book. What would the world look like in the near future if we moved further away from eating real foods and moved towards more industrialised, controlled and processed foods?

Read the next story drop in 2055 of two children who stand up to the fiat food system after a taste of freedom:

https://primal.net/e/naddr1qvzqqqr4gupzqtsvf96rnj2jksr9lqw7sc3x7s59zuxv4m5ssutvp6k4e0t0k5z2qqg8gctnw3jj6mmx94n8yet9v3hk6n5h4lh

😂

The same people who play games on LinkedIn I’d bet

Nostalgia

The competition is heating up with 40 entries in the nostr:nprofile1qqsfy7f8d0lms08wxw2xu4jvxcq2x2zqy6dgypksrh05p3jr9w4qhjcpr4mhxue69uhkummnw3ezumt4w35ku7thv9kxcet59e3k7mf0qythwumn8ghj7ct5d3shxtnwdaehgu3wd3skuep0qanl80 Fiction Month [FM] ending soon! Top prize 100k #sats

Consider reading and #zapping Not One Satoshi ranking near the top!

https://stacker.news/items/1092912/r/GreaterthanFiction

Thanks so much for your feedback. If you liked that one you may also find this one moving https://primal.net/e/naddr1qqxkumedwpjhymtfwdekjmmwqgszurzfwsuuj545qe0crh5xyfh59pghpn9wayy8zmqw44wt6ma4qjsrqsqqqa28l2ks6l

Great analogy

Liars and thieves

They’ll come for the vlogs

Great podcast! Be the change you with you wish to see in the world. Do you think Gandhi was a libertarian?

We need more of these

Excited to be a contributor to this-a great initiative

#asknostr what’s the best relays for writers?

Great ad