But the camera breathes. It tilts—barely perceptibly—as if held by someone trying not to weep. The light shifts from afternoon to dusk in three frames, then back. Time here is not linear. It is residual . What you are watching is not a recording. It is the impression left behind after the subject vanished—like a photograph of a shadow.

On it, a number: ATID-260.

You realize, with a soft horror, that you are not the viewer.