Six Months Earlier…

The shutter clicked before I opened my eyes.
A warm lens rested in my hand—Canon, full-frame, I think. The strap was tangled around my wrist like I’d been using it as a tether. My boots were soaked. Cold water pooled around my ankles.
I was in a marsh. Morning light poured over cattails and rising mist, but there was no sun. Just brightness from nowhere. I raised the camera again. No memory of setting the ISO, but it was perfect—400. Shutter speed 1/1600. Why so fast?
A bird screamed. Not chirped— screamed, like metal tearing in half.
I turned just in time to catch something moving through the reeds. Tall. Wrong. The camera fired three more times—automatic, like it knew what I needed.
I ran.
Brush cracked underfoot. A trailhead appeared that wasn’t there before. Wood sign, hand-carved: Reflection Loop. I didn’t remember hiking in. Or driving. Or sleeping.
The photos.
I checked the back of the camera. Five shots. All blank except one. It showed the marsh. But I wasn’t in it. I was above it. Looking down. From the sky. From a drone I don’t own anymore.
Behind me, the water rippled without wind.
A voice shouted my name. Not Markos. Not my name.
Click.
The camera took another shot.
I dropped it and ran.
Feet on gravel. Suddenly I was in a clearing. A fire ring. Picnic table. Backpack I didn’t recognize, full of batteries I’d never charged.
Someone was sitting on the bench. Smiling.
“Six months,” they said, “and you still don’t see it.”
I blinked.
Gone.
I turned. The camera lay on the ground, lens fogged over. I picked it up. Powered off. No images saved.
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