Mara tried to delete the file. Permission denied. A new folder appeared on her desktop: “BIRTHDAYS.” Inside, 18 empty subfolders. And one video file, already open, playing live feed from her bedroom.

The video was monochrome, grainy, dated May 20, 2015. A fixed camera angle showed a long, empty hallway—fluorescent lights buzzing in silent flickers. The time stamp ran normally for 52 seconds. Then, at 00:53, a shadow moved. Not a person. Something flatter, like a folded photograph sliding along the wall. The shape stopped mid-corridor, turned edgewise, and opened .

In the feed, her future self sat up in bed, turned to the corner ceiling, and smiled—exactly the same smile as the blurred woman in the hallway.

The time stamp now read 00:00 again. The hallway was no longer empty. The woman stood directly in front of the camera, pressing the balloon against the lens. Pop. The screen went red. When the color cleared, Mara saw herself—sleeping, three hours from now, in her own bedroom. The camera angle was from the ceiling corner. She didn’t own a camera there.

She looked at the file name again. 052015-881.mp4. May 20, 2015. That was six years ago. The hospital gown matched St. Jude’s pediatric wing—closed since 2014 after a fire. Eighteen children had died. One survived. No records remained of her name, only a case number: 052015-881.