Every night at exactly 2:17 a.m., Elias woke up knowing something that hadn't happened yet.
Not guesses. Not dreams. Facts.
He knew which cup would crack in the morning.
He knew which bus would arrive late.
He knew when the old clock in the hallway would finally stop breathing.
The knowledge never came with reasons—just quiet certainty, like tomorrow whispering through a keyhole.
Elias learned early never to interfere. The one time he warned a woman not to cross the street, she stayed back… and a falling sign hit her instead. Tomorrow didn't like being corrected.
So he lived carefully. Small life. No risks. No attachments.
Until one night, at 2:17 a.m., tomorrow went silent.
No whispers. No knowing. Just darkness and the sound of his own heart, loud and uncertain.