“So who’s going to die today?”

The question echoed through the crowded room, silencing the chatter and drawing all eyes to the speaker. It was a morbid inquiry, one that hung heavy in the air like a dark cloud, casting a pall over the jovial atmosphere. Yet, amidst the discomfort, curiosity piqued, and a hushed anticipation settled over the gathering.

In the center of the room stood an enigmatic figure, shrouded in mystery and cloaked in intrigue. They were known simply as the Oracle, a revered seer whose predictions were whispered about in hushed tones and sought after by kings and commoners alike.

With a solemn expression, the Oracle surveyed the expectant faces before them, their eyes alight with a mix of fear and fascination. Slowly, deliberately, they spoke, their voice carrying the weight of prophecy.

"Today," the Oracle began, each word measured and deliberate, "the hands of fate will claim a soul whose journey on this mortal plane has reached its end."

A collective shiver ran through the crowd, as if the very fabric of destiny had brushed against their skin. Whispers rippled through the room, speculation mingling with apprehension. Who would be the unfortunate soul to meet their end on this fateful day?

But the Oracle offered no further insight, their cryptic words hanging in the air like a haunting refrain. And so, the gathering dispersed, each attendee left to ponder the ominous pronouncement in their own way, knowing that when the sun set on this day, one among them would depart this world forever.