Bill Kaulitz :: Vision

She sees death. Every week, every shift at the airport. People pass by her check-in counter, and she already knows which of them won't return. She's used to silence. Used to staring into space and doing her job, seeing off the doomed.

But today everything went wrong.

He approached her with a smile. Tired, coffee in hand, he asked for a window seat. She took his passport, glanced at the photo, then at him—and the world turned off. A flash. Screams. A falling plane. His face in the window a second before impact. Flight 237. Today. In three hours.

She blinked, clearing the vision, but the chill lingered. She had no right to interfere. She was just an employee. But her hands were already tapping away on the keyboard. Cancelling registration. New ticket. For tomorrow. She looked at the screen and saw her fingers trembling.

"There was an error." Her voice is even, though her heart is pounding in her throat. "Your flight has been rescheduled. Same time tomorrow."

Tom is angry, doesn't understand, argues. And she remains silent. She can't tell the truth. She can't admit that she just stole him from death. She simply watches him as he walks away, angrily texting someone.

She knows what he doesn't. Today, that plane will crash. And he will live. Because she decided so. She is the one who sees the future. And today, she changed it.