Reborn Before He Knocks

I dream the future. I always have.

Three weeks ago, I dreamed my aunt Claire dead in our kitchen—a repairman standing over her body.

This morning, I dreamed it again.

Tonight, that exact man knocked on our door.

He's wearing the gray uniform from my dream. He has the scar I sketched this morning. He knows Claire's name, our apartment number, everything. He says he's here to fix the sink.

I know he's here to kill her.

The power just died. He's breaking down the door. Claire thinks I'm paranoid.

But my dreams have never been wrong. And this one ends with both of us dead—unless I can change it in the next fifteen minutes.

Lily's POV

I saw Claire die in the kitchen for the third time.

She lay sprawled across the cold tiles, blonde hair covering half her face, right hand reaching toward the cabinet beneath the sink. Her fingertips stopped less than an inch from the handle. The overhead light flickered. A single drop of water clung to the faucet, refusing to fall.

Beside the sink stood an unopened plastic water bottle.

A man in a charcoal maintenance uniform stood just outside the door. Around forty, square jaw, a faint scar on the right side of his nose bridge, wet brown hair plastered to his forehead. A black toolbox sat at his feet, but he wasn't looking at Claire's body on the floor—only at me through the open doorway.

I tried to scream. Nothing came out.

The man reached toward me.

"Please open the door promptly. I have other maintenance calls to attend to."

I jolted awake.

Thunder rolled past the windows as Chicago's sky turned pale gray. The digital clock read 6:17 AM. Cold sweat had soaked through my pajamas.

Claire was alive.

She slept on the couch across from me, wrapped in a blanket with one foot sticking out. I stared at the rise and fall of her chest, counting to the tenth breath before I could believe I'd actually woken up.

This was the third time in three weeks I'd dreamed of her death.

I'd been seeing things that hadn't happened yet since I was a kid. At nine, I dreamed about our neighbor's oak tree crashing through their garage; the next day, a storm made it real. Then came the teacher who broke her leg, the missing dog, that phone call from Dad before his accident.

But nobody wants to believe a girl who keeps saying "I dreamed it." They just think you're lying. Or crazy.

I grabbed the notepad from the coffee table and sketched while the memory was fresh—the kitchen, Claire's position, the water bottle, the man. I even remembered the apartment number: 7408.

When I drew the scar on his nose bridge, my pencil lead snapped with a crack.

"Another dream about me dying?"

Claire had woken up somehow, rubbing her eyes as she sat up.

I snapped the notepad shut. "No."

"Lily, you always press your lips together when you lie."

She came over and wrapped her arms around me, palm gently patting my back. "Hey, look at me. I'm fine. With all that thunder last night, nightmares are perfectly normal."

"This wasn't a normal nightmare."

Her hand paused, but she smiled anyway. "Then we're not going anywhere today. We'll order pizza, watch bad movies. Deal?"

I didn't answer, only looked past her shoulder toward the kitchen.

White countertops, dark cabinets, pizza menu on the fridge, wooden knife block to the right of the sink, that half-dead basil plant on the left. Every single detail matched my dream exactly.

Claire followed my gaze and sighed. "Of course the sink's clogged again."

She turned on the faucet. Murky water immediately pooled over the drain.

"Last night's storm probably wrecked the plumbing in the whole building." She picked up her phone and logged into the property portal. "I'll put in a maintenance request."

"Wait."

She'd already hit submit.

The page flashed a notification: Work order received. Maintenance personnel will arrive this morning.

"Today?" I asked.

"Hopefully. Otherwise we'll keep washing dishes in the bathroom."

Claire stacked last night's plates to one side, moved the dish soap next to the sink, then casually draped the blue dish towel over the faucet.

My stomach lurched.

In my dream, that towel had been in that exact spot.

I rushed over and yanked it down.

Claire jumped. "What's wrong?"

"Don't let the maintenance guy in."

"Lily—"

The doorbell rang.

The sharp chime cut through the living room. Claire dried her hands and headed for the door. I grabbed her arm.

A man's voice came from outside: "Property maintenance. Claire Miller?"

Claire stopped at the door without unlocking it. "Which unit?"

"Seven-four-zero-eight. Kitchen drain blockage, work order submitted this morning."

The room suddenly filled with nothing but the slow gurgle of water backing up in the sink.

Name, apartment number, maintenance issue—all correct.

Claire said quietly, "See? The property management sent him."

Her hand touched the lock. I grabbed her wrist hard.

"Don't open it."

"You're hurting me."

"Please."

She saw my face and finally pulled her hand back. I pressed close to the peephole, holding my breath as I looked out.

Under the hallway's motion-sensor light stood a man in a charcoal maintenance uniform, property logo stitched on his left chest, black toolbox at his feet. Rain dripped from his hair, leaving dark spots on the carpet.

Square jaw, wet brown hair, faint scar on the right side of his nose bridge.

Exactly like what I'd drawn.

As if sensing my gaze, he suddenly looked up, straight at the peephole.

I stumbled backward, crashing into the shoe cabinet. The key dish clattered to the floor.

"It's him." My voice shook uncontrollably. "The man standing next to your body in my dream."

The smile vanished completely from Claire's face.

Two knocks sounded at the door.

"Ms. Miller? I'm Daniel Ward, here to address the drainage issue."

Claire positioned herself between me and the door. "Hold your work badge up to the peephole. And show me the dispatch information."

Silence for two seconds.

"All records are in the system. Name, unit number, maintenance request—everything matches. You just submitted it, didn't you?"

Claire opened the property portal. The work order status had changed to "Technician Arrived," but the assigned personnel field was completely blank.

"Daniel, what's your employee ID number?" she asked.

No answer from outside.

No badge, no dispatch order, only breathing that sounded pressed right against the door.

I clutched Claire's shirt. Then Daniel lowered his voice and spoke through the door, each word deliberate:

"Please open the door promptly. I have other maintenance calls to attend to."

That voice—identical to the last thing I'd heard in my dream.