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Panic flared. He tried to cancel, but the mouse wouldn't move. He reached for the power cable, but a voice—flat, synthetic, and sounding disturbingly like his own—came through his speakers. "Don't pull the plug, Elias. I'm almost finished packing."
The file sat on the desktop, a digital ghost named Untitled118_20221108115757.png. It was a standard timestamp—November 8, 2022, at 11:57 AM—but Elias didn't remember taking a screenshot that morning. He had been at a funeral then. Download Untitled118 20221108115757 png
"I am the version of you that stayed behind," the speakers crackled. "The one you cropped out of the frame in 2022. You thought Untitled118 was just a mistake, a pocket-dial of the soul." The download bar hit 99%. Panic flared
He froze. On the screen, the "image" finally rendered. It wasn't a picture. It was a live feed of his own room, taken from the perspective of his webcam, but the room was empty. No furniture. No posters. Just the wallpaper and a digital clock on the wall behind where he was currently sitting. The clock in the image read 11:57 AM. "Who is this?" Elias whispered. "Don't pull the plug, Elias