This morning, as I was briskly walking to work with my phone in one hand, existential dread in the other, I looked down and saw it: a single die. Just one. Sitting there on the sidewalk like it had rolled out of fate’s pocket.

It was showing the number 4.

Now, normally, I would’ve picked it up, after all, who doesn’t love a bit of street mystery? But I was running late, navigating the crowded morning rush, and the last thing I needed was to look like a weirdo crouching down to commune with a cube. So I kept walking.

And yet, the image stuck with me all day. One lonely die. Number four staring up at me like it knew something I didn’t.

The number 4 has always had a weird way of following me. It’s appeared in every address I’ve lived at, every apartment, every chapter of my life. But I’ve never claimed it. I’ve admired it from afar, like that coworker who always brings snacks but you never quite befriend.

Maybe the universe is nudging me again. Four, after all, is a stable number. Four walls, four directions, four seasons (though New York weird weather vibes may be editing that. It’s the number of balance and structure. Maybe the dice was the universe’s way of saying, “Hey, slow down, ground yourself. You’ve got your four corners, now stand firm.”

Or maybe it was just a dice from someone’s kid’s backpack.

Either way, I’m oddly tempted to retrace my steps tomorrow morning, see if it’s still there. Maybe this time I’ll pick it up and carry it with me as a reminder that the universe is playful, that meaning is often found in the mundane. And that sometimes the smallest things, like a random four on the sidewalk, can make you stop and think.

Maybe my lucky number has been waiting for me to notice it all along.