Fred found it in the attic of a shuttered opera house, its case covered in dust. The mandolin looked ordinary, cherry wood body, ivory inlay, strings dulled with rust. But the moment he plucked a note, the sound rippled strangely, like a pebble dropped in water that refused to stop spreading.

The first time he played, the mandolin answered back, in images. A chord showed his neighbor dropping groceries tomorrow, oranges bouncing into the street. The next day, it happened exactly. Soon Fred tested it. Minor chords showed his brother arriving late to dinner, wine on his shirt. Tremolos revealed the stock market plunging. Every vibration was a thread pulled loose from time. It should have made him powerful. Instead it made him miserable. Every vision arrived like junk mail from the future, unasked for, impossible to unsubscribe from. Worse, he learned that nothing he did could change what he saw. If the mandolin showed him breaking an ankle, he could lock himself in a padded room for weeks, but fate would happily find a way to shove him down the stairs of the fire escape during a false alarm.

One night the mandolin showed him old and grey, placing it back in its case, locking it, and walking away. Fred sighed with relief. At least there was an ending. He closed the mandolin and swore not to play it again. Then the strings quivered on their own and spelled out the future in perfect arpeggios:

“You’ll be back tomorrow.”

Fred laughed. Because the mandolin was right.