The Stranger Who Knew My Future

The café smelled of burnt espresso and yesterday’s rain, a combination I’d grown strangely fond of during my late-night writing sessions. I sat in my usual corner seat, laptop open, cursor blinking like a heartbeat waiting for purpose. Outside, the streetlamps flickered against the wet pavement, casting long shadows that moved when nothing else did.

I was on my third cup of coffee when the bell over the door chimed. A man stepped inside—tall, coat dripping, a fedora pulled low enough to hide most of his face. He paused as though assessing the room, then walked straight to my table.

“Ethan Rowe?” he asked.

Something uneasy crawled up my spine.

“Yes?” I replied cautiously.

He smiled faintly, tugged a chair back, and sat without waiting for an invitation. The dim light caught his features: pale eyes, deeply set; cheekbones sharp as if sculpted. He looked like someone who didn’t belong in the present—his entire presence felt borrowed from a black-and-white film.

“I need only three minutes of your time,” he said.

“And why is that?”

“Because in exactly twenty-seven seconds, that barista will drop the tray she’s holding.”

I frowned. “What?”

He motioned with his chin. I followed his gaze. The barista, a college kid with shaky hands, carried a tray of mugs toward the counter.

Twenty-seven seconds later—

CRASH.

Ceramic shattered across the floor, water splashing against her shoes. She gasped, cheeks flushing as she hurried to pick up the pieces.

My mouth went dry.

“How did you—?”

“I pay attention,” the man said. “Prediction one.”

He leaned back, as though the moment had only reinforced something he already believed. I tried to laugh it off, but the sound stuck in my throat.

“I’m not interested in magic tricks,” I said.

“What about warnings?”

Before I could ask what he meant, he lifted his hand.

“In thirty seconds, your phone will vibrate. It’s an email. Your publisher is rejecting your latest manuscript.”

I scoffed. “Okay, now—”

Bzzzt. Bzzzt.

My phone jumped against the wooden table. The screen lit up with a notification.

Re: Manuscript Review – Unfortunately…

A cold weight settled in my chest. I looked up slowly. The stranger hadn’t moved, hadn’t blinked.

“That’s two,” he said softly.

I stared at him, anger and fear blurring together. “Who are you?”

“Someone who knows things. Someone who wants to help.”

“Help with what?”

He ignored the question and looked toward the door. “A man in a yellow scarf will walk in. He’ll ask if anyone found a silver ring. He’s been searching for it for hours.”

“That’s ridiculous. It’s past midnight. No one’s—”

The door chimed.

A man wearing a mustard-yellow scarf poked his head in.

“Sorry—has anyone seen a silver ring? I think I dropped it earlier today.”

I felt my pulse hammering against my ribs. The stranger didn’t even acknowledge the man. He watched me instead, eyes unblinking, like he was waiting for something to crack inside me.

“Three,” he whispered.

I pushed my laptop closed. “What do you want from me?”

The stranger folded his hands neatly on the table. “Just one thing. Listen to my final two predictions.”

“I don’t want to hear them.”

“You’ll want the fourth,” he said calmly. “The fifth… well, no one ever wants the fifth.”

My breath hitched. Something about the way he spoke—measured, soft—sounded final, like a eulogy.

“Fine,” I whispered. “Say the fourth.”

He leaned forward. “If you leave this café in the next ten minutes, you will be hit by a cyclist speeding around the corner.”

“That’s absurd—”

“I advise you to stay seated. Ten minutes. Nothing more.”

I checked the time on my laptop.

12:07 a.m.

My instinct was to test him, to prove he was nothing more than a well-timed illusionist. But something in his eyes—an old sadness, almost like guilt—made me stay put.

We sat in silence. The rain outside eased into a soft drizzle, the kind that whispered secrets only the lonely heard.

At 12:17 a.m., a blur shot past the window—a cyclist, pedaling too fast, nearly hitting a parking meter.

My fingers tightened around the table.

“That’s four,” he murmured.

I exhaled shakily. Every prediction had been impossibly accurate. Too accurate.

The stranger studied me with a quiet sorrow.

“You shouldn’t have asked for the last one.”

Fear coiled tight inside me.

“What’s the fifth?”

He hesitated. For the first time, he looked unsure—like someone about to hand over bad news they wished they didn’t carry.

“Ethan…”

He said my name gently, like he’d said it a thousand times before.

“The fifth prediction is about your death.”

The world froze. My heartbeat thundered in my ears, drowning out everything else.

“No,” I whispered. “I don’t want to know.”

“You already do,” he said sadly.

Images flooded my mind—streets, cars, accidents, hospitals. Death felt suddenly close enough to taste.

“How?” I choked out. “When?”

The stranger rose slowly, placing a hand on the back of his chair.

“You die tonight.”

My blood iced over. “What? Why would you tell me that?”

“Because I’ve tried stopping it,” he said. “Every time. It never works.”

Every time?

My breath faltered.

“What do you mean every time?”

He stepped back, shadow swallowing his face. “This isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation, Ethan. Or the tenth. Or the hundredth.”

I stared at him, disbelief twisting into horror.

“I’m stuck,” he said quietly, “watching you die over and over. And no matter what I do, the future doesn’t change.”

My heart felt like it had stopped.

“You’re lying.”

“I wish I was.”

“What happens to me?”

He looked toward the window. Rain reflected in his eyes like memories.

“You step outside after I leave. Something draws you out—fear, denial, anger. A car doesn’t see you. It’s quick.”

I shook my head violently.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“You always say that.”

His voice trembled.

He walked toward the door.

“Please, Ethan… try to stay alive this time.”

Then he disappeared into the rain.

I sat frozen, fear anchoring me to the chair. Minutes passed. Hours maybe. The café eventually closed, lights dimming one by one. But the stranger’s final words clawed at my mind.

Try to stay alive this time.

At 2:14 a.m., my phone buzzed.

Unknown Number:

“Ethan… don’t go outside.”

My chest tightened.

I hadn’t moved. I wasn’t planning to.

But somehow, despite every instinct screaming no…

I stood.

I walked toward the door.

My hand wrapped around the handle.

Because the worst part wasn’t believing the stranger.

The worst part was remembering…

I’d dreamt this moment before.

And in the dream—

I stepped outside.