Vid_20201203_134436_611mp4

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.

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. VID_20201203_134436_611mp4

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. The person filming was wearing a jacket he

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: . They were holding something small—a bird, maybe, or

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."

He played it again, and again, and again. On the tenth loop, he noticed something in the bottom corner of the frame. Reflected in a frozen puddle near the bench was the person holding the phone. It wasn't Elias.

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.