Through

Six Months Earlier…

I was standing this time. Not waking. Not rising.
Just... there.

A dim room — or maybe a warehouse. The edges bled into black, like the world forgot to render anything past a few feet.

A tripod sat across from me. A camera, aimed straight at my chest.

Its screen was on.
I was on it.

But not like a reflection. Not even a mirror.

The live feed showed me from behind. Then above. Then inside — like the lens knew my bones better than I did.
And it kept changing.

I didn’t move, but the scenery around me flickered.

A hallway. A swamp. A tunnel dripping wet moss.

It pulsed, like it couldn’t make up its mind where I was — or where I’d been.

Then it spoke.

Not the room. Not the figure.

The camera.

The sound came through its speaker, a little crackled. It used my voice. But wrong.

“Don’t forget this part.”
“You’re almost through.”
“This was yours. But you gave it up.”
“Say it again.”

I didn’t know what “it” was.

The live footage stuttered — then skipped ahead.

It showed me reaching toward it, hand out. I looked desperate.
But I hadn’t moved.

Not yet.

Something behind the camera shifted.
Like breath. Like waiting.

Then I stepped forward.

The room peeled back again.
Marsh. Smoke. Red sand soaked with water.
Back to the camera.

My fingers reached.

Snap.

A sound like a shutter. Loud and final.

But it didn’t come from the camera.

It came from the figure just outside the frame.
Standing where the shadows were thickest.
Snapping fingers.

Still watching.