Elena Sinclair
I wasn’t supposed to miss that stop.
But I did.
And the second the bus doors closed behind me, something felt… wrong — like the world had skipped a beat and I was the only one who noticed.
It was snowing in London, soft and quiet, like the city was hiding something.
I should’ve been on my way to Heathrow Airport.
Instead, I was standing alone at a stop I didn’t recognise, watching taxis pass like they didn’t see me at all.
Until one finally stopped.
An old man was driving.
And he didn’t look at me when he spoke.
“Where are you really going, young lady?”
And just like that, everything that happened next started feeling… like it was already written.
The morning of the flight, I quickly got ready and sat in a bus. The bus moved peacefully, like a rocking chair but better. The view outside the window was so beautiful and comforting; it felt like a dream.
Zzz…
I had a dream I was at the mansion. We were having dinner; it was delicious. There were all sorts of food — Italian pizza, steaks, and a chocolate brownie with ice cream melting on top.
Mmmh…
Suddenly, the person sitting in front of me started choking. Everyone tried helping him, but he died anyway because the house was far away from the city and we couldn’t get him to a hospital.
I woke up with a jolt, my heart hammering. Then I saw it was my stop and the doors were closing. I panicked, grabbed my stuff, and ran toward the door, getting out just in time.
Only to realise… I had gotten out at the wrong stop.
It was snowing in London. The night was still young, and the city lights felt closer to me, like a memory I hadn’t lived yet.
I waved at every taxi that passed by until an old taxi stopped. An old man was driving, and his daughter was sitting in the front seat. He looked like a good soul.
“Hello, young lady. Where are you heading? Don’t mind my daughter in the front.”
“Hi, Heathrow Airport, please.”
As I sat in the taxi, I glanced at my phone and saw an unknown number. The person behind it was typing. I waited for the message, but it never stopped.
As I looked up from my phone, I saw the old man glare at me through the rearview mirror, as if I had personally caused a natural disaster. I tried focusing on something else and realised the daughter had been unusually quiet and hadn’t moved a muscle.
I reached the airport with a mix of discomfort and relief, glad I hadn’t missed my flight.
After check-in and immigration, I boarded the plane. I called Mrs. Beaumont and told her I was on my way.
The view outside the window was stunning. The clouds stretched out like a frozen ocean, endless and glowing, lit from beneath by a sun that felt too soft to be real. It wasn’t just a sky anymore — it was layers. Gold bleeding into cotton white, fading into deep blue like someone had smudged the edge of the world with their thumb. Honestly, I forgot to blink.
But no matter what I tried, the dream kept circling back in my mind, as if it were trying to tell me something. I brushed it off and focused on the view and the flight.
While I scrolled on my phone, I got a message from the same unknown number:
“Don’t board this flight. Or you’ll regret it.”
I replied:
“Why? What’s wrong with this flight?”
I didn’t get a reply back. It must have been a prank, kids these days.
As the flight went on, I watched movies, ate food, and enjoyed the clouds. Eventually, The plane landed in Montreux.
I got out of the airport and went to the nearest bus stop. I waited until the crowd thinned. Something about packed spaces didn’t feel right today.
I sat there waiting, so I decided to go to a nice nearby restaurant.
As I searched for some restaurants, I decided to go with Le Mont d’Or.
The restaurant itself looked amazing — all gold lighting, soft music, champagne reflections bouncing off the walls.
Everything on the menu looked perfect.
Too perfect.
I ordered Fondue, Rösti with sausage, and Älplermagronen.
And that’s when my phone buzzed again.
Unknown number.
Typing…
