The file was buried in a folder named System_Log_Temp on a refurbished laptop Elias bought at a yard sale. Most people would have wiped the drive immediately, but Elias was a digital archivist by trade—and by obsession.
At the four-minute mark, a hand reached into the frame and placed a handwritten note next to the candle. The handwriting was frantic, looping wildly. The camera zoomed in—slowly, mechanically—until the words filled the screen:
He didn't turn around. Instead, he reached for the mouse to close the window, but the cursor wouldn't move. On the screen, the hand appeared again. This time, it wasn't holding a note. It held a key—the brass skeleton key Elias kept under his own welcome mat.