The Boy Who Remembered His Future

They said children had wild imaginations. But what happens when imagination becomes prediction—then prophecy?

Ten-year-old Rayyan was a quiet child, the kind who observed more than he spoke. His mother, Layla, first noticed something odd the day he drew a detailed blueprint of a device she didn’t recognize. It wasn’t something he saw online or on TV. He simply said, “I built this. In the future.”

She smiled politely. Parents often humored their children’s fantasies. But when he began referring to people they’d never met—by full names and birthdays—and writing in a language she couldn't place, her smile faded.

At first, she thought it was just a phase, perhaps a result of reading too many fantasy books. But things escalated quickly. Rayyan began waking up in the middle of the night screaming about events no one could verify. “There will be a fire at school,” he whispered one morning. “Near the lab. Tuesday.”

Layla didn’t know what to do with that. She called the school, half-embarrassed, half-worried. They thanked her, dismissed her concern, and life moved on.

Until Tuesday.

Just after lunch, a small fire broke out in the science lab due to faulty wiring. No one was harmed, thanks to a fire drill Rayyan insisted they do that morning. Suddenly, the boy with strange dreams became the boy everyone was watching.

The local news caught wind of the story. “Child Prophet?” the headlines asked. Teachers interviewed on record called it coincidence. Privately, many began to worry.

Then came the psychologist.

Dr. Halim was calm, precise, and skeptical. He believed in science, not psychic children. But Rayyan shook him.

The boy described events in Halim’s own life he had never spoken of—his sister’s death, a motorcycle accident, even the name of his first childhood pet. He also whispered something that made Halim turn pale: “You’re going to get a call this Friday. Don’t ignore it.”

Friday came. The call was about a family member with an undiagnosed heart condition. Because of the warning, it was caught early.

Rayyan became a subject of confidential study. But he never seemed proud or pleased. If anything, the visions haunted him. “It’s not remembering,” he once told Halim. “It’s reliving something you haven't done yet. It feels… wrong.”

One evening, Layla found her son staring blankly at the wall. “I saw the end,” he said softly.

“The end of what?” she asked.

“Of me.”

He wouldn’t elaborate for days. His behavior shifted. No more blueprints. No more names. Just silence. And then, a single note placed on her pillow:

“I’ll die saving someone. I don’t know who. But I saw the moment. I heard their voice. I felt the pain. I remembered it happening. And it happens soon.”

Layla broke. She called Halim, teachers, even religious scholars. No one had an answer. Everyone wanted to believe he was just a disturbed child, a product of a stressed environment, or gifted but confused.

But deep down, Layla believed him. Not because of the notes. Not because of the predictions. But because of his eyes. They carried the weight of someone who had lived too many lives for one soul.

On the day it happened, nothing felt unusual. The sun shone. The birds chirped. Layla dropped him at school with a kiss and trembling hands.

By evening, the story was everywhere: “Local Boy Dies Saving Girl from Drowning in School Pond.”

He saw her fall. No one else noticed. He ran. He jumped. He pulled her out. But a blow to the head from a submerged pipe took him under.

She lived. He did not.

The town grieved. The media flooded the area. Everyone called him a hero. But Layla couldn’t stop thinking about one thing:

He knew. And he did it anyway.

Weeks later, Halim sat with her, broken by guilt and wonder. “He knew he could die… and he still made the choice.”

Layla looked out the window, tears dried on her cheeks. “That’s what made him more than a prophet. He wasn’t just remembering the future. He was deciding what to do with it.”