Lexi believed she could stay ahead of fate.
After saving two more people, she started writing everything down—times, places, small details from her visions. She avoided sharp corners, busy roads, crowded stairs. She stayed alert every second, convincing herself that caution was control.
But fate was quieter than she expected.
One afternoon, Lexi noticed something strange. Her visions were changing. They were no longer clear warnings. Instead of loud crashes and panic, she saw small moments—a loose wire, a cracked step, a door left open. They felt harmless, almost meaningless.
That frightened her more than the disasters.
That evening, Lexi received a message from one of the survivors asking to meet her at the old library. Her instincts screamed no, but nothing in her vision showed danger. For the first time, she doubted herself.
Inside the library, everything was calm. Too calm.
As Lexi turned to leave, she noticed the clock on the wall stop ticking.
Suddenly, memories rushed back—not of the train, but of moments she had ignored. The times she survived by pure luck. The close calls she never questioned. Lexi realized something terrifying.
She was never meant to survive the first vision.
The future hadn't changed because of her gift.
It had bent around her.
The lights flickered. A shelf creaked. Lexi stepped back, her heart racing, searching for a way out—but there was none shown this time. No warning. No vision.
Because this moment was already decided.
As the clock started ticking again, Lexi understood the truth: fate allows delays, not escape. And every time she saved someone, she only moved herself closer to the end.
When the doors finally opened and people rushed in, Lexi was gone—leaving behind her notebook, open on the last page.
One line was written, shaky and unfinished:
"The future always collects what it is owed."