Vid_20221114_232808_016.mp4

In the video, the camera shakes slightly as it moves through the darkened hallway of the old lake house. You can hear the heavy, rhythmic breathing of the person holding the phone—my brother, Elias. It was the last video he ever took.

I’ve watched "VID_20221114_232808_016.mp4" a hundred times. Every time, I hope the ending changes. Every time, I wonder who—or what—pushed "stop" on the recording. VID_20221114_232808_016.mp4

The video ends exactly as the front door, visible at the end of the frame, begins to swing open on its own. In the video, the camera shakes slightly as

Elias spins around, the camera whipping in a blurred arc of pixelated black and grey. When the focus snaps back, the hallway is empty. The heavy breathing stops. The silence in the video is so absolute it feels like a physical weight. Then, a soft click . I’ve watched "VID_20221114_232808_016

The timestamp on the file was the only thing that made sense anymore: November 14, 2022, 11:28 PM .