During a quiet history lesson on a Tuesday, I needed a drink of water. My teacher gave a quick nod, and I left the room. The hallway was empty, but I heard soft footsteps matching my own. I shook my head, thinking it was just an echo, and continued to the water fountain.
After I drank, I glanced at the dark windowpane beside it. A boy’s face was reflected, standing directly behind me. I spun around, but the corridor was deserted. The boy in the glass spoke my name, ‘Leo,’ and my heart jumped. ‘Your father is gone,’ he said. I ran, refusing to believe a word, and hurried back to class.
All through the rest of the day, I tried to convince myself it was a trick of the mind. But a nagging worry grew as I walked home from the bus stop. I found the front door unlocked, which was strange. My pulse raced as I stepped inside.
My father was lying on the living room rug. I called for help immediately, but it was no use. He had passed away.
I still don’t understand how the vision knew. Now I avoid looking at any dark, reflective surface.