Lin Zhou had traded futures for twelve years. His account had never turned a profit, yet he couldn't bring himself to walk away.
At thirty-eight, he was a lab supervisor at a provincial university. His professional title had been stuck for years, and his daily routine was a jumble of equipment inspections, reagent records, and safety checks. Divorced, he was raising two children alone and making mortgage payments every month. He spent late nights reviewing red and green candlestick charts, then got up at dawn to cook and take the kids to school. His days were pulled back and forth between the flickering market screens and stacks of inventory records.
After twelve years of slowly grinding away with small positions, he finally saw the source of his discontent. He demoted futures trading to an ordinary hobby and accepted the people he'd lost, the career that had stalled, and his imperfect self. Only after letting go of his obsession did life truly begin: he endured the weightlessness of withdrawal, bore the burdens of everyday life, and found clarity as the years settled. He watched his daughter grow day by day, watched Old Zhou pass on his position securely and the newcomer take up the responsibility, and even ran into the person who had first introduced him to trading. He offered only a quiet greeting. He held on to his responsibilities and the warmth of everyday meals. With no storms or waves, he had all the world he needed.
