It wasn't a bad day.
And that was exactly what made it worse.
He woke up slightly late—not enough for chaos, just enough to make him move faster than he liked, without quite reaching panic. Sunlight lingered behind the curtain, and the sound of cars in the street felt normal. Familiar. Comforting, almost.
He got out of bed and dragged his feet to the bathroom, splashing his face with water colder than necessary. He looked at himself in the mirror for two seconds. No more. He never liked standing there too long. There was nothing worth examining.
A man in his late twenties. Ordinary features. Neither strikingly handsome nor unpleasant. A face easy to forget—and that suited him. Life had always felt easier when no one truly saw you.
He dressed quickly, picked up his phone from the table, and checked the time. Seven minutes late.
"It's fine," he told himself while tying his shoes.
In the kitchen, he opened the fridge, hesitated for a second, then closed it. No time for breakfast. He grabbed his keys and left.
The stairwell was crowded, as usual. The neighbor on the third floor was arguing with her child, and the television in the opposite apartment was blaring louder than necessary. Everything in place. Everything as it always was.
Outside, the air was mild. Neither suffocating heat nor biting cold. He stopped at the crossing, looked right and left, then walked across. He wasn't thinking about anything specific. His mind was on autopilot—that state where you live without quite feeling alive.
He reached the bus stop, stood in line, and pulled out his phone, scrolling aimlessly. News. Ads. Short clips that left no trace. Time passed. He passed with it.
Then something happened.
Small.
A message.
There was no notification sound. No vibration. Nothing sudden. But when he unlocked the screen, there it was—a window unlike anything he had seen before.
A plain black background.
Clear white text.
One single line.
Highest probability if you board the next bus: 83%
He froze.
Blinking once.
Then again.
He looked at the screen more closely. No app name. No icon. No close button.
He tapped the screen. Nothing.
Lowered the phone slightly. Raised it again. The message remained, unmoving, unblinking.
"What is this?" he muttered.
He glanced around quickly. The people in line stood as they were. No one staring at his phone. No one looking alarmed.
He looked back at the screen.
Highest probability if you board the next bus: 83%
"Probability of what?"
He asked it quietly, as if the phone might answer.
Nothing happened.
He turned off the screen with the side button.
Breathed.
Then turned it on again.
The window reappeared instantly.
This time, a second line appeared beneath the first.
Outcome: Arriving on time
He stared.
"A new app?"
He checked through his applications. Nothing.
Settings. Nothing.
He restarted the phone.
Waited.
Unlocked it.
The window was still there, as if the restart had never happened.
Highest probability if you board the next bus: 83%
Outcome: Arriving on time
A tightness formed in his chest. Not sharp fear—just that sensation that precedes anxiety when no explanation presents itself.
He looked up.
The bus was approaching.
Its heavy, familiar sound rolled closer. It stopped. The doors opened.
The line moved forward.
The moment he took a single step, the text changed.
Highest probability if you step back once: 61%
Outcome: 12 minutes late
He stopped abruptly.
The person behind him bumped into his back.
"Move, brother."
Annoyance in his voice.
He looked at the screen.
Then at the bus door.
Then at his own feet.
"Am I messing with myself?"
He stepped back. Just to test it.
The text shifted instantly.
Highest probability if you board now: 79%
Outcome: Arriving two minutes late
His heartbeat quickened.
"This is… impossible."
He lifted his foot and stepped into the bus.
The text vanished.
He sat near the window, breathing slightly heavier without realizing it. He looked at the phone.
Normal.
No black window. No white text.
He let out a short, nervous laugh.
"Hallucination."
"Has to be."
He looked out the window. The bus moved.
A few minutes later, it stopped suddenly. Unusual traffic. A minor accident at the intersection.
He checked the time.
Two minutes late.
He swallowed.
Slowly, he unlocked the phone.
The window appeared again.
Highest probability if you get off now and walk: 27%
Outcome: Arriving on time
Cold spread through his fingers.
He looked up. The distance wasn't short, but manageable if he hurried.
The text changed again.
Highest probability if you remain seated: 68%
Outcome: 11 minutes late
"Stop."
He whispered it—to himself more than to the phone.
He pressed the screen harder. Nothing.
Tried closing it. Nothing.
The text didn't command him.
It didn't forbid him.
It simply… informed.
He stood near the bus door. The driver looked at him curiously.
"Getting off?"
He hesitated.
Looked at the phone one last time.
27%.
"Yes."
He stepped off.
And ran.
The street was long. Sidewalks crowded. His breathing heavy. His heart pounding. But he kept going.
He reached the building. Took the stairs two at a time.
Entered the office. Looked at the clock.
On time.
He stood there for a full two seconds,
as if his body hadn't yet processed that he had arrived.
He looked at the clock again.
Then at the office.
Then at the people around him who noticed nothing unusual.
He sat down slowly,
placing the phone on the desk in front of him.
He stared at it for a long time,
waiting for something to appear…
or for everything to disappear.
But the screen remained ordinary.
No black window.
No white text.
No proof of what had happened minutes earlier.
He took a deep breath,
trying to convince himself it had been stress, or a temporary glitch, or a strange coincidence—nothing more.
But his hand, without him realizing,
tightened slightly around the phone.
Not out of fear.
Out of caution.
Because for the first time in a long while,
his decisions did not feel like they passed and vanished.
They felt as though…
they remained.