Of course, regardless of what Atropos liked to let on, all-seeing was not the same thing as all-knowing. The Weave was a vast and infinitely complex beast, 7.8 billion threads overlapping and tangling and entwining in the most capricious of ways; it simply wasn't possible for a single goddess, even one with three sets of eyes and three pairs of hands, to track the myriad twists of every life at every moment of the day. What they could, and did, do was look upon the tapestry as a whole, and, knowing the pattern and the shape of it with the familiarity of master weavers, focus in on the deviations and anomalies, the points of tension, the threads that drew those around out of alignment.
The birth of a seer of Apollo Loxias' own blood was always going to cause a ripple in the Weave, most especially when it fell in such close proximity to the birth of a saint's child blessed with fortune's favour. Suffice it to say that while Atropos regarded Amparo and Jocelyn as top quality ladies, their meeting at the local seniors' centre a few years ago hadn't been at all coincidental.
You couldn't keep track of every thread, but some demanded closer attention than others.
So Atropos was up and out of her seat even before the departing customer had reached the door, was crossing the floor even as the impact sounded and the customer dropped her bags to crouch at the fallen girl's side, exclaiming apologies. Atropos caught the door as it swung back towards her and poked her head out into the street. "Is that Lyra Campbell trying to break down my door?"
The customer looked up at Atropos, stricken. "God, I am so— I didn't even see her, she musta been running—"
Atropos brushed it off with a wave of her hand. "It happens. You go on, hon, I know her grandma."
"But—"
The Crone stepped out fully onto the sidewalk and pushed gently but firmly past the woman to lean over Lyra. "Here, kiddo. How many fingers?"