“You watched it, didn’t you? Check your front door.”

The first act was mundane. Her making coffee in the apartment they’d shared. Walking past the café where they had their first fight. Laughing alone at a meme she’d usually send him. But by minute forty-seven, the frame held on an empty chair across from her at a restaurant. Her voice cracked: “I keep ordering your dish by accident.”

He double-clicked.

He scrolled to the end.

That was the year she left. And the year she said, “Maybe in another life, we’ll get the timing right.”

Leo sat alone in his studio apartment, the glow of his monitor casting long shadows across stacks of hard drives and tangled cables. On the screen, a single line of text blinked in the folder labeled Unsorted .

“If you ever find this,” she said, “the password to the archive is the name of that stupid stray cat we fed on Mulberry Street.”