In a city where people still talk in hushed voices about the cost of onions in November, an old, withered Bitcoin wallet—more legend than asset—suddenly blinked awake, like a provincial civil servant remembering he left the samovar on. Rumor has it the wallet, which had slumbered peacefully since Tsar Nicholas or thereabouts, moved 2,186 BTC—some $207 million—while the neighbors clutched their rubles and peered through lace curtains.
They say in July, 2013, when a bitcoin was worth less than a reasonably priced samovar, this whale swept up his fortune at $85 a coin. Now, after 142 months—time enough for an entire generation of philosophers to grow disillusioned—those same coins are worth nearly $95,000 apiece. My uncle Fyodor never believed in progress, and yet here we are: 111,581% richer and not a single potato in sight.
But our protagonist is no monogamist. Having also acquired 82 BTC when the world was enchanted by the tender sweetness of March 2014 ($612 each), and another 75 BTC during the melancholy of that November ($377 each), he quietly amassed his little kingdom. If only Dostoevsky had known—you could buy and sell three Raskolnikovs with those gains.
Sometimes, during those long years of dormancy, trace amounts of cryptocurrency drifted into the wallet, like unsolicited advice at a Russian wedding. Some whispered of “dusting attacks” by academics, policemen, or scoundrels, tossing in kopecks worth of crypto to see who might stir. Curious—anonymity losing out to curiosity as it so often does at midnight balls.
Those who worry about privacy and dust might learn from our whale: stay asleep long enough, and no one knows whether you’re rich or merely forgetful. At least until you throw $207 million out the window one Tuesday afternoon, causing a herd of crypto enthusiasts to faint upon their own charts.
At the time of this writing, Bitcoin itself, so often compared to literary greatness or borscht recipes, now fetches $100,405. Not a bad sum, but still no match for the drama of waking up after ten years and finding yourself richer than half the families in Chekhov’s short stories.
One wonders if the whale is celebrating with caviar, or merely staring into the middle distance, pondering the fleeting nature of wealth. More likely, he’s looking for the password he taped under his desk a decade ago. 🍸
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2025-05-09 18:14