I’ve never believed in predictions. Not in fortune tellers, not in “signs,” not in the idea that you can somehow know the future. It always seemed to me that people just connect the dots afterward. Until something happened to me last fall. I live in a pretty normal neighborhood. I work in an office, nothing unusual. In the evenings, I often go for walks just to clear my head. Not far from my place there’s a small park, usually empty at night. There are benches, streetlights, and an old vending machine that looks like it’s been there for at least ten years. One day, I noticed something strange. Someone had started leaving notes on the machine. Small pieces of paper, like from a notebook, taped right onto the surface. At first, I didn’t think much of it—just assumed someone was joking around. But the next day, there was a new note. And the old one was gone. That got my attention. I walked up to read it. It said: “Tomorrow at 6:40 PM, a man will drop a bag at the entrance of the store.” No signature. No explanation. I even smirked a little. But the next day, on my way home from work, I remembered it. It was around 6:35, and I happened to be walking past that exact store. I stopped. Just out of curiosity. At exactly 6:40—almost to the second—a man walked out of the store with a bag. Took a few steps… and the bag tore open. Everything fell onto the ground. I just stood there, not really sure what I was feeling. It could have been a coincidence. A weird one, but still. The next evening, I went back to the park. There was a new note. “At 10:12 PM, the building across the street will lose power on all floors for 5 seconds.” I stayed home on purpose and watched from my window. I have a clear view of that building. At 10:12, the lights went out. Everywhere. And a few seconds later, they came back on. That’s when it started to feel unsettling. I began going there every day. The notes were always different. Sometimes small things—someone tripping, a car alarm going off, unexpected rain. And every time, it happened. Always. Then they started getting stranger. One note said: “Do not open the door tomorrow at 7:26.” At first, I thought about ignoring it. But I still set an alarm and woke up. At exactly 7:26, someone rang my doorbell. I didn’t open. I just stood there, listening. After a few seconds, it stopped. I checked the peephole—no one was there. I even considered that maybe someone was messing with me. But how could they get the timing so exact? A few days later, there was a note that genuinely scared me. “You will stop coming here after Saturday.” I read it on Friday. On Saturday, I went anyway. There was a new note. And this one… “At 9:03 PM, you will drop your phone. Do not pick it up immediately.” That annoyed me. I decided I wouldn’t pay attention to it. But later that evening, around 9:03, I got up from the couch—and my phone slipped out of my hand. Fell to the floor. Instinctively, I reached to pick it up… but stopped. I don’t even know why. I waited a few seconds. Then I heard a crack. The phone had landed near the edge of the table. If I had stepped forward right away, I would’ve stepped into a spill of water I hadn’t noticed. I would have slipped. Maybe nothing serious would have happened. Or maybe something worse. After that, I couldn’t treat it like a joke anymore. On Sunday, I went back to the park. The machine was there. But there were no notes. None at all. I checked everywhere—even the sides, underneath. Nothing. Since then, I haven’t seen a single note again. But sometimes I get this strange feeling. Like I missed something. And there’s one thought that still bothers me: that last note was the only one that didn’t come true completely. Because I still go there. Sometimes. Only now, every time I see that machine… I catch myself waiting for another note to appear.