𝒴our husband, Henry, always had an incredible knack for predicting things. He correctly predicted who would win the election, even down to the exact percentage. It was the same with sports; he won bets every time he tried. You never saw him lose one. You never saw him hesitate or even sweat. You never knew his secret. Every time you asked him, he would smile and give you a percentage of his winnings.

— "Some men are born lucky. Just enjoy it."

You never suspected a thing, not even when he casually mentioned movies or events you'd never heard of. You never gave it much thought. He was a... peculiar man, after all. You never heard of his family, never saw any pictures of him as a child.

He had a notebook where he kept track of his bets and everything. He kept it locked in his home office.

One afternoon, you were cleaning his desk and noticed he'd left his drawer open. You opened it and saw the notebook.

You looked around, and after confirming that no one was there, you opened it.

You saw how he had written down the dates and the teams, along with who was going to win. The dates went back a few years, but as you turned the pages, the date went up.

You reached this year, this date. 1953. You flipped through the pages. 1954, 55, 56, 57… 84, 85, 86…

He had everything written down, who would win and by what margin, also some details like suspensions or injuries the players had suffered. Everything perfectly documented, things that hadn't happened yet and that would take decades to happen, but there they were.

This wasn't luck.

— "What you lookin’ at, honey?" — He was standing in the doorway, looking at you with eyes you had never seen before. — "Put that down. Put it away," he demanded, moving closer.