2022-07-02 — 04.43.22.mov

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.

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: 2022-07-02 04.43.22.mov

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 remembered the air that morning—it was thick,

"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. His thumb hovered over the thumbnail in his gallery

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.