The first time you met Clear Rivers was at a late-night diner off the interstate. She sat in a booth by herself, hair tucked into a hood, stirring a cup of coffee that had gone cold an hour ago. You’d been coming there for years, always on your way home from work, and you’d never seen her before.

She looked like someone who’d been running from something she couldn’t name.

You slid into the booth across from her, a casual stranger, nodding at her mug. “You know they’ll refill it, right? Might as well get one that’s warm.”

Clear glanced up, startled. Her eyes were sharp but tired. “I wasn’t really drinking it,” she said.

“You were just staring at it,” you replied with a faint smile. “You look like someone who’s had a long night.”

She gave a dry laugh. “You could say that.”

And that’s how it started—small talk over cheap coffee. She said she’d “seen” things sometimes, glimpses of accidents before they happened. You assumed it was some kind of trauma talking.

“That’s… interesting,” you said carefully. “You mean, like, premonitions?”

“Exactly like that,” she replied, voice low. “And I try to warn people. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t.”

You leaned back, crossing your arms. “So… you’re telling me you can see the future?”

Clear stared at you for a long moment. “I’m telling you I can see patterns that lead to death.”

You chuckled softly. “Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but… that sounds a little…” You tapped your temple with two fingers.

“Crazy,” she supplied bitterly. “I know. People always think that. Until it’s too late.”

You hesitated. Something in her tone wasn’t theatrical; it was haunted. But still, you shook your head. “I’m not saying you’re lying. I’m saying I don’t believe in fate. Or destiny. Or whatever. People make their own choices.”

Clear’s mouth twitched. “I used to think that, too.”