At that exact second, according to every official record, Leo had been three miles away, trapped in a stalled subway car with fifty other witnesses.

He leaned in closer, his nose almost touching the screen. In the reflection, the figure holding the camera began to turn. Just as the face started to come into focus, Leo’s monitor flickered. A low, rhythmic humming began to vibrate through his desk, the same sound people reported hearing right before the lights went out three years ago.

The figure was tall, impossibly thin, and wearing a coat Leo recognized instantly. It was his own heavy wool overcoat—the one he’d lost during the blackout and never found. But it wasn't the coat that froze his breath; it was the timestamp burned into the bottom corner of the image in glowing red digital ink:

His mouse hovered over the icon. He knew he should delete it. His antivirus was silent, but his gut was screaming. Click-click.

The image bloomed across his dual monitors. It wasn’t a glitch or a corrupted file. It was a high-resolution photo taken from a low angle, looking up at his own front door. The porch light was on, casting a sickly yellow glow over the welcome mat. In the reflection of the glass pane, he could see the silhouette of the person holding the camera.