2022-07-02 04.43.22.mov -

The blue light of the smartphone screen was the only thing illuminating Elias’s face as he sat on the edge of the motel bed. His thumb hovered over the thumbnail in his gallery. The timestamp was precise, clinical:

He had pulled over at a scenic overlook, the kind that looks like the edge of the world when the sun hasn't quite decided to show up. He didn't know why he reached for his phone. He wasn't a "video person." But the silence was so heavy he felt like he needed to prove it existed. He hit play.

Outside, the sun was just beginning to touch the horizon. It was 04:43 AM. He didn't need to record it this time; he just needed to be there. 2022-07-02 04.43.22.mov

Then, at , the camera settles on a single point in the valley below. A lone set of headlights is winding its way up the mountain pass. The light is tiny, like a spark floating in a dark ocean. Elias remembers watching that car and wondering if the driver was running away from something, or toward something.

Sitting in the motel room now, Elias realized that the person who filmed that video doesn't exist anymore. The 2022 version of himself was still full of questions. The current version was finally starting to find the answers. He didn't delete the file. He locked the phone and looked out the window. The blue light of the smartphone screen was

"Where are you going?" Elias’s voice whispers on the recording. It’s the only time he speaks. The video ends abruptly at twenty-two seconds.

At , Elias’s own reflection appears briefly in the driver’s side window as he pans the camera. He looks younger then, though it was only four years ago. His eyes aren't tired yet. He didn't know why he reached for his phone

The video starts with a shaky sweep of the horizon. The sky is a bruised violet. For the first four seconds, there is only the sound of wind whipping against the microphone—a low, rhythmic thrum.