In the center of the frame stood a woman in a yellow slicker, her back to the camera. She was looking out at a sea so dark it swallowed the horizon. For twelve seconds, she didn't move. Then, at the 0:13 mark, she turned. She didn't look at the person filming; she looked directly into the lens, as if she knew that years later, in a quiet apartment, Elias would be watching.
The file sat at the bottom of a corrupted drive, wedged between spreadsheets and blurry vacation photos. Elias clicked it. The player flickered to life, displaying a grainy, handheld shot of a rainy pier at dusk. There was no sound, only the visual hum of digital noise. g4_01229.mp4
He looked at his hands. He had no memory of being at the pier that day. He had no memory of the woman. But as he glanced at the reflection in his darkened monitor, he saw a yellow slicker hanging on the hook behind him—dripping wet, though it hadn't rained in weeks. In the center of the frame stood a