Adrian didn’t sleep much that night.

  The rain over Greybridge eventually faded into a quiet mist sometime past midnight, but the silence that followed felt heavier than the storm.

  Inside Old Lantern Books, the yellow lamps burned late.

  Adrian remained behind the counter with the black book in front of him.

  It hadn’t written anything else.

  Not after the second prediction.

  Just those few lines:

  Tomorrow.12:06 PMYou will receive a phone call.The caller will ask about the photograph.If you answer the call…You will discover something that should not exist.

  Adrian had read the page at least twenty times.

  Each time hoping he had misunderstood something.

  Each time realizing he hadn’t.

  Eventually, around three in the morning, exhaustion forced him to lock the shop and walk home.

  Greybridge at that hour felt like a ghost of itself.

  Streetlights hummed softly. Water dripped from rooftops. The city breathed slowly in the dark.

  Adrian’s apartment sat above a small bakery two blocks away.

  It was narrow, quiet, and mostly empty except for books stacked against the walls.

  He placed the black book on his kitchen table.

  Then he placed the photograph beside it.

  For a long moment he simply stared at them.

  Two objects.

  Both impossible.

  Both apparently connected to him.

  “Tomorrow,” he muttered.

  Then he turned off the lights and tried to sleep.

  Morning arrived slowly.

  Greybridge mornings were rarely bright. The sky remained pale and cloudy, and the air still smelled faintly of rain.

  Adrian woke late.

  10:42 AM.

  For several seconds he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, unsure why his chest felt tight.

  Then he remembered.

  The book.

  The prediction.

  12:06 PM.

  He sat up immediately.

  The black book remained on the kitchen table where he had left it.

  Silent.

  Unmoving.

  Adrian approached it cautiously, as if it might react to him.

  He opened it.

  The page had not changed.

  The same prediction remained written in dark ink.

  Adrian exhaled slowly.

  “Alright,” he said quietly.

  “Let’s test this.”

  If the book predicted a phone call, there were only two possibilities.

  Either the call would happen.

  Or it wouldn’t.

  And if it didn’t…

  Then the entire thing was just an elaborate coincidence.

  Adrian almost hoped that was true.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  He spent the next hour trying to distract himself.

  He made coffee.

  He attempted to read.

  He even tried reorganizing the books on one of his shelves.

  None of it worked.

  His eyes kept drifting toward the clock on the wall.

  11:31 AM.

  Then 11:47.

  Then 11:59.

  By the time the clock read 12:03, Adrian had stopped pretending to do anything else.

  He sat at the kitchen table.

  The black book open before him.

  His phone lying beside it.

  Waiting.

  The apartment was completely silent.

  12:04 PM.

  Adrian’s pulse quickened.

  12:05 PM.

  The seconds felt slower now.

  Each tick of the clock echoed through the room.

  Then—

  The phone rang.

  Adrian flinched.

  For a moment he didn’t move.

  The screen lit up on the table.

  Unknown number.

  The book had been right.

  Adrian felt his throat tighten.

  The ringing continued.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Three times.

  He remembered the line written on the page.

  If you answer the call…

  His hand hovered above the phone.

  Part of him wanted to ignore it.

  To prove the book wrong.

  But another part of him—the part that had always been curious about strange things—needed to know.

  Finally, he picked it up.

  “Hello?”

  For a second, there was only static.

  Then a voice spoke.

  Calm.

  Low.

  And oddly familiar.

  “Good,” the voice said.

  “You answered.”

  Adrian frowned.

  “Who is this?”

  A brief pause.

  Then the voice asked:

  “Do you still have the photograph?”

  Adrian felt a cold shiver run down his spine.

  The book had predicted that exact sentence.

  “Yes,” Adrian said slowly.

  “Why?”

  The voice didn’t answer the question.

  Instead it asked another.

  “Did you notice what appears on the back when you hold it under a strong light?”

  Adrian’s grip on the phone tightened.

  “I did.”

  “Good,” the voice replied.

  “That means the fragment has recognized you.”

  Adrian sat up straighter.

  “Fragment?”

  “Yes.”

  The word hung strangely in the air.

  “The photograph,” the voice continued, “is one of them.”

  “One of what?”

  “Future Fragments.”

  Adrian’s mind raced.

  “That doesn’t explain anything.”

  “It explains more than you realize.”

  The voice sounded calm.

  Too calm.

  Adrian glanced at the black book on the table.

  “Let me guess,” he said carefully.

  “You know about the book too.”

  Silence.

  Then the voice spoke again.

  “Yes.”

  Adrian felt the room grow colder.

  “Of course you do.”

  “Listen carefully,” the voice said.

  “There are more fragments out there. Objects that do not belong to normal time.”

  Adrian leaned forward.

  “Who are you?”

  The answer came quietly.

  “Someone who found one of them before you did.”

  Adrian’s mind spun.

  “So you’ve seen the future too?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Another pause.

  Then the voice said something that made Adrian’s stomach tighten.

  “The fragments don’t show the future.”

  “They create it.”

  Adrian looked at the black book again.

  Suddenly it felt heavier than before.

  “If that’s true,” he said slowly, “then who’s writing in this one?”

  For several seconds, the caller didn’t answer.

  When the voice returned, it sounded more serious.

  “That’s exactly the problem.”

  “What problem?”

  “The book shouldn’t be active yet.”

  Adrian’s pulse quickened.

  “What do you mean ‘yet’?”

  “Because according to the Archive…”

  The voice stopped.

  As if realizing it had said too much.

  Adrian immediately leaned forward.

  “The Archive?”

  But the caller ignored the question.

  Instead it asked something else.

  “Adrian… has the book written anything about me yet?”

  Adrian froze.

  “You know my name.”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “Because,” the voice said quietly, “I’ve been watching the pages.”

  Adrian felt his chest tighten.

  “How is that possible?”

  The voice did not answer.

  Instead it said one final sentence.

  “Whatever you do… don’t trust the next entry.”

  Then the call ended.

  The line went dead.

  Adrian slowly lowered the phone.

  The apartment was silent again.

  But something had changed.

  Because as Adrian looked down—

  The black book had begun writing again.

  A new page.

  A new entry.

  The ink moved quickly this time.

  Almost urgently.

  Adrian leaned closer.

  The sentence forming on the paper made his breath stop.

  Do not listen to the voice on the phone.

  The ink paused.

  Then continued.

  He is lying to you.

  Adrian stared at the words.

  Two impossible things were now true at the same time.

  Someone on the phone knew about the book.

  And the book knew about the caller.

  One of them was lying.

  The problem was—

  Adrian had no idea which one.