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.

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. 2022-07-02 04.43.22.mov

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. At , Elias’s own reflection appears briefly in

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 video starts with a shaky sweep of the horizon

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.