The Well Part 3

Six Months Earlier…

I was still falling.

But slower now. Controlled, almost. Not like being pulled—like being guided.
The air grew thick. Not just heavy—intentional. It knew I was coming.

And I was starting to understand something:

This wasn’t endless.

It was in order.

Each drop, each ledge, each glimpse backward—deliberate.
I wasn’t spiraling.
I was descending.

And the bottom wanted to be found.

The next ledge was narrow. I caught it hard with my ribs, let out a breath that sounded like a sob—but wasn’t.

I turned.

Another window into a memory.

The tripod. The camera. The room from Through—but this time, I wasn’t in it.
Not yet.

The figure was.
Standing where I had been.
Watching the screen that showed me—reaching.

I was witnessing the moment before I arrived.
The camera was already speaking.

“Don’t forget this part.”
“Say it again.”

I still didn’t know what “it” was.

But I felt it.
Like something I should’ve remembered long before I ever started forgetting.

I moved on.

The ledge ended in a crumbling slope, and I let myself slide.
It was easier now.

Another shelf.
Another scene.

The dry rocks from Parched.
The same ones shaped by centuries of water. Still bone dry.

Except now I could see the reflection lake glitching from the side.
I wasn’t in it.
But the figure was.
Not reflected—watching the reflection.

It looked toward the tripod.
Toward the lens cap.

I whispered the words before I remembered them:

f/0.0 — shutter stuck

And then—

Click.

I turned sharply.

The shutter hadn’t come from the tripod.
It had come from deeper in the well.

Again, mine.

One final drop.

This one felt different.
Like a release.
A submission.

I didn’t resist. I let the air have me.

And I landed.

Softly.
Not on dirt.
On wires.
A nest of them, gently cradling me like roots.

In front of me: a laptop.

Lit. Warm. Waiting.

Familiar dents in the aluminum. A worn trackpad.
It was mine.
From another time.
Or a time I hadn’t reached yet.

The screen showed a folder.

Images.

I clicked.

Each thumbnail was blank. No name. Just timestamps.

Except… there weren’t any.

Each file’s EXIF read the same:

6 Months Earlier.

That was it. No date. No hour. Just that.

I stared. My hands hovered over the keys.
I didn’t open them.
Not yet.

Because I wasn’t alone.

Behind me—

The figure.

Closer than before.

It didn’t speak.
It didn’t move.
But the look on its face…

It wasn’t rage.
Or sadness.
It was recognition.

Like it had been waiting for me to remember.
Not who I was—
But what I had done.

The shutter clicked again.
But this time, I knew where it came from:

The fallen me—
Still drifting somewhere above—
Had pressed the button
on the strap around his wrist,
to take the picture
of me
remembering him.