Ten large light fixtures arranged in a grid dimly lit the plain ceiling. Just beneath the fifth light stood a man in a neat, white coat. The man stood on pristine, polished concrete floors. To his right was a long, stainless steel table with a number of small test tubes on top, each containing a glowing liquid. Besides the test tube racks laid a few Petri dishes and a heavy microscope. To his left hung a whiteboard equally divided into ten vertical sections with nine parallel lines across. A brittle piece of paper with frayed edges stuck to the bottom left corner of the whiteboard. It contained neatly spaced lines of mathematical symbols and formulas written in dark blue ink. In front of the man stood a window wide open to the cold, misty dawn. A massive, archaic computer displaying endless enigmatic codes sat between the man and the window. Reflecting off the thick lenses of his glasses, a little cursor moved continuously, inserting characters one after another, periodically moving from one line to the next. Water vapor began condensing on his thick lenses and in between them, underneath the glasses, the tip of his nose turned bright red. The man turned to examine the dusty round clock perfectly centered above the metal door frame. It read exactly 4:55 a.m.  

Attacking the worn-out mechanical keyboard, the man occasionally glanced at the upper-left-hand corner of the screen: 6:20 a.m. A bead of sweat hung precariously from the tip of his nose; his eyes were wide open as if his brain had forgotten to make them blink. His hands remained steady… 6:25 a.m. His glasses were so fogged he could barely see, but the thunderous roar of the fans inside his giant machine beat against his eardrums, ceaselessly sending signals to his brain and commanding his slender fingers as they desperately fumbled for their designated keycaps. Suddenly, a rush of memories flooded his mind. 

“Davey, it's time for lunch!” yelled his mother from downstairs. Davey only touched the staircase when it was absolutely necessary. 

He had just finished laying out all 100 matchsticks as if they were soldiers with each of their little heads held high, pointing towards his wooden door. With his pinky finger, Davey carefully adjusted the position of each so they were parallel and equally distanced from each other, forming a perfect 10 by 10 square. Behind him stood a neatly cut board bordered by a wooden frame. From it fell bits of broken white chalk that formed a thin layer of white dust on the carpeted floor. The board was filled with mathematical figures, including a giant square divided precisely into 100 equal little sections. Looking back at his board, one problem still remained… 

“David! You either come down right now or...”

The world returned to silence. Davey froze as he fixed his gaze at the chalkboard with every bit of energy focused on his brain. Behind his dark shiny pupils, endless streams of thoughts raced across his mind to make synaptic connections.

6:30. The loud clang of the alarm jolted the man back to reality as his fingers slid across the keys. He then sat up, took his wrinkled coat off, and used the edge of his polo shirt to wipe the condensation off his glasses. The man cracked the heavy metal door and slipped out. 

The morning sunlight flooded through every window of the narrow hallway, blinding him for a moment. The man straightened his shirt, wiped his clammy hands against his jeans, and continued forward. 

In his bedroom, Davey picked up a piece of white chalk as big as his own hands and neatly wrote down the figure: 37%. The odds of success could only be as high as 37%, Davey thought to himself. 

Sliding his fingers along the white wall, the man unwittingly picked up its dust and felt precisely every one of its small bumps as he walked forward. Outside each opened window, leaves rustled and the wind carried soft tunes as it traveled through the willow but sighed when it struck the concrete wall. It appeared to be strong enough to carry in feather-like pollen that glided off the man’s shirt while some remained in his hair. The man checked his outdated phone, one which he used solely to check the time; it read 6:35. Looking beyond the device, he examined the white dust that had gathered on his polished shoes. Next to those shoes landed a little twig blown in by the wind. 

Looking past the 37th matchstick, Davey counted to the 55th one and gingerly picked it up. It looked almost like a twig but prettier. Closely examining its appearance, Davey saw it had a redder and rounder top compared to the rest of his soldiers. Beneath the little head was the lean, tan body that would fuel the flame. 

The 37% rule, the man recalled, was still neatly written on a small paper that hung on the whiteboard in his lab simply for its precise, beautiful reasoning. It gave him the ultimate meaning of life. Although he had failed several times in the past 7 years, he always knew that he would succeed on this day. As the man had calculated all of it himself, exactly 37% of the time had passed and the moment had finally arrived. Just at the end of the hallway, behind the wooden door, awaited his destiny, the love of his life. 

6:40. He slowly moved away from the wall with a thick layer of dust now clinging to his fingertips. The man sped up in shoes fully covered by trillions of fluffy white particles, sending up vortexes of pollen mixed with dust as he moved closer to the wooden door. 

Reaching for his little box, sweat broke out across Davey’s forehead but his hands were steady. The cardboard box was worn and one of its surfaces was red and coarse with multiple scratches. Striking the matchstick was the last step. With the 55th little soldier in one hand and the rectangular box in the other, Davey struck its red, circular top against the side of the box as hard as he could manage. The matchstick spluttered to life and glided along with the movements of his hands. An elegant formula gave birth to a tiny inferno that infinitely, unconditionally sparked bits of color and warmth in Davey’s world. 

Standing before the wooden door, the man reached inside his pocket and took out a little velvet box. As he carefully opened it, an elegant, ornate ring reflected sunlight onto his face, casting spots of shimmering light onto the white walls behind him. His own eyes glittered as he studied the gemstone. The man checked his phone with his other hand. The time read 6:50. 

Nimbly, he closed the velvet box, tucking it into his pocket. The man then fidgeted with it a little, pretending to take it out a few times. Reaching at last for the stainless steel doorknob, the sharp wind howled, sending pollen up in the air that settled on his long eyelashes. The leaves rustled fiercely, tapping the closed window and sticking to the glass before falling to the ground.  Slowly turning the knob, the door moved gradually outwards, opening up to a pitch black hallway. With pollen falling into his eyes, the man’s hands began to shake as he took out his phone and dialed a series of numbers, inadvertently missing the keys. As his tiny inferno slowly burned out, his eyes blurred with tears as he realized the sting of rejection. Despite his elaborate calculations, his proposal had gone awry. His love was not behind this door. The world returned to silence and the tiny blaze of warmth vanished.