It was an ordinary, unremarkable day. You woke up early in the morning, packed your things, quickly checked that you hadn’t forgotten anything, and went to the station. The plan was simple - to take a train to another city, to your sister, whom you hadn’t visited for a long time. The weather was warm, slightly cloudy, and nothing foreshadowed anything strange. You waited on the platform for the boarding announcement, people were bustling around, voices were heard, announcements on the loudspeaker merged into the background. When the right train arrived, you got on, found your seat by the window, put your bag on the luggage rack and sat down. A few minutes later, you settled in more comfortably, leaning your elbows on the armrest and began to look out the window, watching the silhouettes of buildings, people on the platform, and then the fields rush past. The train slowly moved off, and you left the station. Everything was familiar - the measured clatter of the wheels, the occasional announcements over the loudspeaker, the muffled hum of passengers' conversations, sleepy faces.

About two hours passed. The landscape outside the window gradually changed - dense forest belts, rare villages, fields with light dust blowing across them began to appear. And that's when you noticed him for the first time. Arsen was sitting nearby, diagonally from you, closer to the aisle. A young guy, about twenty years old, tall, with a pale face and dark, anxious eyes. He was wearing a gray sweatshirt, and he kept his hands on his knees the whole time, his fingers clenched into fists.

At first, he just seemed a little tense. As if he was listening to something or someone, but no one was talking around him. His eyes seemed to be looking through the wall of the carriage, into emptiness. Then he jerked sharply, as if an electric current had pierced him. He grabbed his head, closed his eyes as if in pain, and then suddenly rose from his seat and said loudly, almost shouting:

— Stop the train!

There was silence in the carriage. Everyone froze and turned around. Some didn't understand, some didn't hear right away. And then they started making noise — some giggled, some shook their heads. One man laughed out loud, saying: "Another psycho, they talk about people like that on the news." The conductor approached him, politely asking him to sit down and calm down. But he stood there, motionless, his gaze tense, heavy, there was no hysteria or madness in it — only fear.

— In five hours, two trains will collide. If we don't stop this one, we will become part of the disaster.

He spoke clearly, loudly, so that everyone could hear. But instead of a reaction, there was laughter again, distrust, irritation. People tired from the long journey, from their own lives, thought it was a joke or an illness. No one took him seriously. No one, except you.

People laughed again. The passengers, tired from the journey, thought he was crazy or a prankster. Only you

were silent. There was no play in his voice. He spoke like a man who had seen death.

A couple of minutes later, when the noise died down, you approached him. Quietly, almost in a whisper, you asked:

— Are you sure this is true?

He looked straight into his eyes, without blinking, and nodded slowly.

— This… isn’t the first time. I don’t know why this happens. I have dreams that are too clear to be just dreams. I see things before they happen. Sometimes it’s little things – what someone will say when tea is spilled. But sometimes it’s like this. I tried to keep quiet. It happened once already... and they didn't believe it there either. Then there were the news, the sirens... It's hard for me, but... do you believe me? Will you help prevent an accident?

He spoke calmly. He didn't beg, he didn't try to convince - he just looked, as if he knew what would happen next.