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.
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:
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.
"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.
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.
He remembered the air that morning—it was thick, smelling of pine needles and the coming rain of the Pacific Northwest. He had been driving for six hours, escaping a life that had become too loud, when he saw the fog rolling over the crest of the Cascades.