New York. May 2005.

  Leo Argent didn't like spring. Too much light, too many people on the streets, too much life demanding attention. He preferred autumn—the muted colors, the cold wind, and the rain that kept people indoors. But today, spring had given him a rare gift—a deserted street in downtown Manhattan, where he could simply walk and not think.

  Twenty-three years old, a successful artist, an interior designer with a growing reputation, the heir to a small fortune from his investor parents. From the outside, it seemed like a perfect life. Inside, there was a void that neither money, nor recognition, nor even art could fill.

  Leo stopped at a traffic light, pulling a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He lit one and took a deep drag. In the pocket of his old leather jacket lay a notebook—always with him, in case inspiration struck. Or anything else.

  These states began in childhood. A trance. A lapse into nothingness, when the hand moved on its own across the paper, and consciousness switched off. His parents attributed it to his artistic temperament. Leo didn't care either—well, he sometimes draws automatically, who doesn't?

  But the last picture did not give me peace.

  Last night, sitting in his studio in the mansion he inherited after his mother's death a year ago, he retreated into himself again. He awoke an hour later in front of a canvas. It depicted a city street, a traffic light, a woman with a baby in a stroller. An ordinary scene. Almost.

  Because there was a car flying off to the right—a silver Honda, its license plate blurred by traffic. Behind the wheel was a young man with wild eyes. And behind them were police cars with their lights flashing.

  The collision was inevitable.

  Leo stared at this painting for two hours, trying to figure out where it came from. A dream? A movie? Someone else's photograph that he'd accidentally seen and forgotten?

  Nothing came to mind.

  “Fuck it,” he cursed then and threw the brush into the corner.

  Now, standing on this street, he almost forgot about the painting. Almost.

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  The traffic light turned green. Leo took a step forward—and froze.

  To his right, at the edge of the sidewalk, stood a young woman. Blonde hair, jeans, a blue jacket. In front of her was a baby stroller.

  Exactly like in the painting.

  His heart sank. Leo slowly turned his head to the right, toward the direction from which the car appeared in his drawing.

  The street was empty.

  "Idiot," he muttered under his breath. "Coincidence."

  The woman began to cross the road. The stroller rocked gently on the uneven asphalt. Leo stood there, unable to move.

  And then I heard.

  The wail of sirens.

  Far away, but approaching. Fast.

  Instinct kicked in before reason. Leo rushed forward without thinking, without analyzing. The woman was almost halfway down the road when a car came barreling around the corner.

  Silver Honda.

  Time stretched. Leo saw every detail—the broken headlight, the driver's distorted face, the police cars fifty meters behind. The woman turned at the sound, her eyes wide with horror.

  Leo made it in time.

  He slammed his shoulder into the stroller, pushing it and the woman aside. The world turned upside down—the asphalt hit him in the back, his ears rang, and a Honda engine roared from the side, passing inches from his feet.

  The brakes screeched. Impact. The sound of breaking glass.

  Silence.

  Leo lay on his back, looking up at the bright May sky. He was breathing heavily, his heart pounding. A baby's cry came from his side—live, loud, healthy.

  "Oh my God... Oh my God!" the woman knelt down next to him, her face white with shock. "You... you saved us! How did you... how did you know?!"

  Leo sat up slowly. The police were already dragging the driver out of the wrecked car. Passersby were gathering around. Someone was filming on a phone.

  “Just... lucky,” he answered hoarsely.

  But it was a lie.

  He knew. He saw it. He drew it the day before it happened.

  The woman thanked him, the police asked questions, the paramedics checked his bruises. Leo answered automatically, but one thought swirled around in his head.

  What was that?

  Argent Mansion. Evening.

  Leo burst into the studio like a man possessed. The canvas was still on the easel—the very same painting. He grabbed it and held it up to the light.

  Every detail matched. The street. The traffic light. The woman. The car. Even the crack in the asphalt was in the same place.

  My hands were shaking.

  - This is impossible...

  He sank into a chair, his gaze fixed on the canvas. A thought pulsed in his head, both maddening and terrifying.

  I drew the future.

  But how? Why? And most importantly, what else did he draw without remembering it?

  Leo stood up abruptly and walked over to the shelves where his old works were stored. He began frantically sorting through canvases, notebooks, and sketches. Most of them were ordinary paintings, interior sketches, and portraits.

  But some...

  He froze, staring at one of the drawings from two years ago. A car accident on a bridge. A three-car pileup. He remembered the drawing—he'd made it in a trance after a sleepless night.

  Leo quickly opened his laptop and typed in the search: “Manhattan Bridge accident 2003.”

  The very first link. A news article. A photo from the scene.

  Identical to his drawing. Down to the smallest detail.

  “Damn...” he breathed out.

  Next image. Fire in an office building. Internet search. Coincidence.

  Another one. Bank robbery. Another coincidence.

  Leo leaned back in his chair, running his hands over his face. His head was pounding. All these years, he'd thought he was just drawing out of boredom during his trances. But he...

  He saw the future.

  "What am I supposed to do with this?" he muttered into the empty workshop.

  There was no answer. Only the ticking of the antique clock on the wall and the rustling of leaves outside the window.

  Leo looked at his hands—ordinary artist's hands, smeared with paint. Hands that painted something that didn't yet exist.

  The world suddenly became much bigger and stranger.

  And that was just the beginning.