Leo sat in the silence of his office, the glow of the monitor reflecting in his eyes. He played it again. Then a third time. In those twelve seconds, Heidy wasn't a memory or a name on a card; she was wind and laughter and the smell of the sea.

The video cut abruptly to black. It was only twelve seconds long.

The video began with the sound of wind whipping against a microphone. Then, a laugh—sharp and bright—broke through the static. Heidy appeared in the frame, her hair a chaotic halo of auburn tangles. She was standing on the edge of a jagged cliff in Donegal, the Atlantic Ocean churning into white foam hundreds of feet below.

Leo hadn’t opened the folder in years. It was buried in a partition labeled "Old Phone Backup 2018." To anyone else, it was just a generic file name, likely a duplicate or a first take. To Leo, it was a time capsule.

"Posterity is for people who aren't here," she joked, spinning around. She tripped slightly on a tuft of sea grass, and the camera jolted as Leo reached out to steady her. For a split second, the lens was pressed against her sweater—it was blue, he remembered now, smelling of salt and wool.

"Leo, stop filming and look!" she shouted, pointing toward the horizon where the sun was dipping behind a wall of slate-gray clouds. "You’re going to miss the green flash!"