04.43.22.mov - 2022-07-02

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.

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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. 2022-07-02 04.43.22.mov

"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.

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. He had pulled over at a scenic overlook,

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.

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 hit play

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.