She sat there for hours, replaying the fragments, each one feeding worse thoughts than the last. Whoever it was, they’d known exactly where to look. The way they handled the toy—gently and lovingly—felt too intimate to be random. And yet, Ellen couldn’t entirely be sure of their identity. The mystery had only deepened.
The next morning, unable to hold it in any longer, Ellen transferred the clearest frame from the video to her phone. It was blurred beyond recognition, yet she sent it anyway. Is this you, David? Her message was short, brittle. Within minutes, his reply came: What are you talking about? That’s not me.