The Man Who Knew How You’d Die

The Man Who Knew How You’d Die

The bus smelled faintly of wet asphalt and stale coffee. It was late—past midnight—and only a handful of passengers sat scattered in their seats, staring at their phones or watching the city blur past.

I slid into an empty seat near the back. That’s when I noticed him.

He was already there, sitting by the window, wearing a plain gray coat and dark gloves despite the mild weather. His eyes were fixed straight ahead, but when I sat down, he turned to me.

And smiled.

It wasn’t the friendly smile of a stranger, nor the awkward smile of someone who had just been caught staring. It was… knowing. Like he’d been waiting for me.

“You shouldn’t be on this bus,” he said.

The words froze me. “Excuse me?”

He tilted his head, studying me. “It’s not much longer, you know. Two hours and seventeen minutes. No pain, at least—not much. But the sound…” He shook his head. “That’ll be the last thing you hear.”

My heart thudded. “What are you talking about?”

His eyes didn’t leave mine. “I know how people die. Not everyone. Just the ones I’m meant to see.”

I laughed nervously. “That’s… creepy.”

“It’s not a gift,” he said quietly. “It’s a sentence. I don’t know your name, your life, anything else. Just the when. The how. It comes to me the second I look at someone.”

I tried to focus on the dimly lit street outside the bus window. “And you’re telling me you just happened to see mine?”

He nodded. “You were the first one who looked back.”

My palms went damp. “Fine. Tell me, then. How do I go?”

His eyes flicked down, as though the knowledge itself weighed on him. “You’ll be standing on a wet street, the kind that smells of rain. You’ll hear a noise—metal, grinding, like a truck too heavy for its brakes. And then…” He made a small gesture with his hands, almost apologetic. “It’ll be over.”

I swallowed hard. “That could happen to anyone.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “But not in two hours and sixteen minutes.”

Something about the precision made my stomach knot. I wanted to call his bluff, but the way he said it—softly, without glee, like he’d said it a hundred times before—made me pause.

I checked my phone. Two hours and sixteen minutes from now would be a little past two in the morning. I’d be home by then, locked inside.

“Sorry, but I think I’ll take my chances,” I said, standing.

He didn’t stop me. But as I moved toward the front of the bus, his voice followed. “Every one of them thought that too.”

I got off three stops early just to get away from him. The cold air bit my skin. My apartment wasn’t far—fifteen minutes if I cut through the back streets.

Halfway there, I told myself I’d been foolish to let him get under my skin. Some weirdo on the bus. That’s all. But every time I passed under a streetlamp, I imagined his eyes following me, his voice counting down in silence.

At home, I locked the door, turned on all the lights, and poured myself a drink. I sat on the couch with my phone, scrolling aimlessly, glancing at the time. Two hours and ten minutes left.

At 2:00 a.m., I was still awake, still alive. I almost laughed at how tense I’d been. “See? Nonsense,” I muttered to myself.

That’s when I heard it—faint at first, through the rain now tapping against my window.

Metal. Grinding.

It sounded like it was coming from the street outside.

I froze. The urge to check was overwhelming. Against every ounce of reason, I walked to the window and pulled back the curtain.

At first, there was nothing—just the slick street, glistening under the streetlights. Then I saw the truck. Huge. Rusted. Rolling too fast. Its headlights swept across my building.

I stepped back.

A second later, the brakes screamed. The truck swerved violently, slamming into a parked car. A shower of sparks lit the street.

The noise rattled the glass in my window. I stumbled backward, my heart racing. It wasn’t me. It had missed me.

And then my phone rang.

The screen showed an unknown number. Against my better judgment, I answered.

The voice on the other end was calm. Familiar.

“Two minutes late,” the man from the bus said. “Sometimes, I’m wrong about the time. But never the ending.”

Behind me, something shattered.

The last thing I heard was the sound of my own window breaking.