The following is the final installment of a three-part series. Abel Fonseca, II, is a lifelong San Benito resident and community advocate who has served students and families for more than two decades. Through his “Heart of San Benito” series, he shares stories that celebrate the people who make the Resaca City special. He can be reached at abelfonsecaii@hotmail.com.
“Some stories tell the future. Others create it.”
Caden Trevino froze at the top of the staircase. The voice from the office sounded exactly like his own. The door slowly opened. A man stood inside, older, taller, tired, but undeniably familiar.
For several seconds, neither of them spoke. Then the man smiled. “You found the newspaper.”
Caden’s stomach dropped. “Who are you?”
The man leaned against the desk. “You already know.” Outside, thunder rumbled.
“You can’t be me,” Caden said.
The man chuckled. “That’s exactly what I said when I met him.”
Caden blinked. “Met who?” The older man’s smile vanished. “That’s a much harder question.”
The office was unlike the rest of the abandoned building. The air felt warmer. Fresh newspapers sat stacked neatly on shelves. Some looked decades old. Others dated years into the future.
Caden picked one up. The date made his eyes widen. The date read, “September 14, 2056,” 30 years from now. He quickly set it down.
“This isn’t possible.”
“I know,” the older man said.
“Who’s printing them?”
The older man looked toward the ceiling. “I’ve been trying to find out for twenty years.”
Lightning flashed outside. The room briefly glowed white. For an instant, Caden thought he saw something strange above them, a shadow moving through the ceiling. It was huge, mechanical, gone before he could focus on it.
The older man’s face tightened. “We don’t have much time.”
“Time for what?”
“The storm.”
Caden pulled out tomorrow’s newspaper and pointed to the article about the storm.
The older version of himself nodded. “That’s why you’re here.” “It says people are caught off guard.”
“They are.”
“Then we warn them.”
The older Caden looked away. “I tried.”
The answer surprised him. “You tried?”
“More than once.”
“What happened?”
“No one listened.” The older man walked to a wall covered in newspaper clippings. Hundreds of them—warnings, predictions, disasters, triumphs, and failures. “I spent years trying to change everything,” the older man said. His voice grew quieter. “The more I fought the future, the worse things became.”
Caden stared at the headlines. Then he noticed one hanging in the center. A frame surrounded it. Unlike the others, it looked brand new. Its date was next week, seven days from now.
The headline read: “Boy Found Missing After Entering Abandoned Building.” A photograph beneath it showed Caden. The room felt suddenly colder.
He asked, “What is this?” The older man didn’t answer. “What happens to me?” Still no answer. Finally, the older version looked up. His eyes were filled with fear. “The future changes every time you read it.”
“What does that mean?” Caden asked.
“It means that article may not happen.”
“May not?”
The older Caden stepped closer. “It depends on what you do next.”
A loud crash shook the building. Somewhere below, a window shattered. The storm had arrived. Rain hammered the roof. The wind howled through the broken walls. Then something incredible happened.
A newspaper floated down from above, not from a shelf, not from the stairs, but from the ceiling itself. Both Cadens stared.
The newspaper landed at their feet. Fresh ink glistened on its front page. Caden slowly picked it up. The date was today, and the headline hadn’t finished printing. Words were appearing right before his eyes as if an invisible press were writing the story. Caden’s heart pounded. He began to read.
“Local Teen Makes Critical Decision During Historic Storm.” Below the headline, the article was blank, completely blank, no story, no details, nothing, as if the future itself hadn’t decided what happened yet. For the first time, the older Caden smiled.
“Do you see?” he asked.
“What?”
“The newspaper finally doesn’t know.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’ve reached the point where no prediction exists.”
The storm roared outside. Lightning illuminated the office. The older man looked relieved. “Whatever happens next,” he said, “has never been written before.”
A loud metallic rumble echoed somewhere above the roof. It was the sound of a giant printing press awakening. The entire building trembled. Newspapers began falling from the ceiling, dozens of them, and then hundreds.
Pages fluttered through the air like giant snowflakes. Future headlines filled the room. Some showed floods. Some showed recovery. Some showed hope. Some showed disaster. None matched.
Every possible future surrounded him, every choice, every outcome, and every tomorrow.
Caden looked up. For the first time, he understood. The newspaper had never shown him the future. It had been showing him a future, and now the choice was his.
The older Caden stepped backward. “What are you doing?” The man smiled. “My job is finished.”
Before Caden could speak, lightning flashed through the office. For a split second, the room became pure white. Then darkness set upon it. When Caden opened his eyes, the older man was gone. The desk was gone. The office was empty, as if no one had ever been there. Only one newspaper remained. The unfinished edition, waiting.
Caden grabbed the paper and ran down the stairs, out the door, and into the storm. The rain soaked him instantly.
Emergency sirens echoed through San Benito. People were already looking toward the darkening sky.
Caden looked at the blank article one last time. Then he folded the newspaper because he finally understood something, the most important story wasn’t printed on the page. It was the one he was about to write about himself. As he raced into town, the blank headline slowly began filling with words, but Caden never saw them.
Years later, no one could agree on exactly what happened during the great storm of 2026. Everyone remembered it differently, but every version of the story included one thing, a 14-year-old boy who somehow knew the storm was coming, and on a weathered bench near the resaca, a newspaper sometimes appeared before sunrise, always dated one day ahead. Waiting for the next reader.
THE END… OR IS IT?