2022-07-02 04.43.22.mov Review

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.

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. 2022-07-02 04.43.22.mov

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: He remembered the air that morning—it was thick,

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 2022 version of himself was still full of questions