The car is silent.
Marcus’s laptop still glows between us, the frozen image of my father’s car staring back like an accusation.
Rain.
Headlights.
The impossible moment before impact.
Marcus exhales slowly. “Well. That’s… deeply disturbing.”
But I’m not listening anymore.
Because something feels wrong.
Not emotionally wrong. Technically wrong.
A faint pressure builds behind my temples—the way it does when a memory tries to surface but can’t quite break through.
I stare at the timestamp on the screen. 02:17 AM.
The crash. That’s what Margaret said. Ten minutes before the crash.
But something inside me resists that certainty.
My pulse quickens. “Marcus,” I say quietly.
“Yeah?”
“Can you rewind it again?”
He shrugs. “Sure.”
The video jumps back. Rain across the windshield. Me d
