Evening tea with a round of Belatro. Cards slid across the table like small ships, ferrying my plans to either fortune or folly. I told myself it was not about winning, it was about the way the hands felt in motion, the quiet tension before the reveal.

Pearl wandered by mid-round, curious, flicking her tail against my knee as if she was trying to tap into my strategy. She might have been more interested in my water bottle nearby, but I liked to think she was rooting for me.

The AI in this game is trickier than it looks, bluffs like a fox, folds like a monk. Twice I thought I had the match sewn up, only to watch my points trickle away like rain into a thirsty garden. Still, there is a thrill in the swing of it.

When the last round ended, I leaned back, stretched, and watched the cards fade back into digital nothingness. Just me again, the quiet of the room, and the kettle starting to sing its second chorus.

Maybe tomorrow I will win. Or maybe I will just play for the rhythm of shuffling and dealing, the way a poet writes lines they do not plan to show anyone, just for the joy of the shapes.

Postscript: Pearl eventually claimed the water bottle as her own, proof that victory takes many forms.