Rohan found the pencil under his examination desk.
It looked ordinary except for two words printed along its side:
NOT YET.
He used it during maths.
When he wrote 42, the pencil erased the answer by itself and replaced it with 36.
Rohan stared.
He checked the calculation.
36 was correct.
Interesting.
That afternoon, he tested it.
Tomorrow it will rain.
The pencil erased rain.
Tomorrow it will be sunny.
Nothing happened.
The next day was sunny.
Rohan began writing bigger questions.
I will win Friday’s race.
Erased.
I will lose Friday’s race.
Erased.
Confused, he tried:
I will finish Friday’s race.
The sentence stayed.
On Friday, halfway through the race, Rohan tripped.
His knee hit the track.
Everyone passed him.
For one angry second, he considered staying down.
Then he remembered the pencil.
I will finish.
He stood up.
He crossed the line last.
That evening, he wrote:
The pencil tells me what will happen.
The words vanished.
In their place appeared:
NOT YET.
Rohan understood.
It had never shown him the future.
It only refused to let him pretend that choices already made it inevitable.
He sharpened the pencil.
Then he wrote:
Tomorrow, I will try again.
This time, the words stayed.
