She Wasn't There

It was supposed to be an ordinary photograph.

A third-floor balcony.
Trees in the distance.
Nothing worth remembering.

Until I looked at the picture again.

There was a woman standing on the balcony.

I was alone when I took it.

The next day, I took another photograph from the same place-this time looking down.

There was someone lying on the ground below.

And somehow, I knew her.

Because the photographs weren't showing me what had happened.

They were showing me what was going to happen.

And the woman in the photographs was me.