Vid_20201203_134436_611mp4 -

When he clicked play, the image didn't immediately appear. There was only the sound of heavy wind and the rhythmic thwack-thwack of a flag hitting a pole. Then, the camera stabilized.

He looked at the file name one last time. The numbers were just a date and time to anyone else. To Elias, they were now a coordinate to a memory he was never supposed to have—or perhaps, a warning from a version of himself that had already lived through what was coming next.

The figure in the red coat turned their head just enough to catch the edge of a profile, but before the face was revealed, the video glitched. Bright green digital artifacts streaked across the screen, and the audio turned into a harsh electronic hum. Elias checked the timestamp: . VID_20201203_134436_611mp4

In the video, Elias heard his own voice from three years ago, a whisper barely audible over the wind: "I don't think they're coming."

The lens was pointed at a park bench dusted with light snow. A person sat there, back to the camera, wearing a bright red coat that cut through the gray afternoon like a signal fire. They were holding something small—a bird, maybe, or a handwritten note. When he clicked play, the image didn't immediately appear

The person filming was wearing a jacket he didn't own, standing in a park he didn't recognize, speaking with a voice that sounded like his own but carried a weight he hadn't felt yet.

He closed his eyes and tried to remember where he was that Tuesday. He searched his old calendars and emails, but December 3rd was a blank. No appointments, no sent messages. It was as if that specific minute had been edited out of his life, leaving only this 12-second clip as evidence. He looked at the file name one last time

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