"It’s happening again," a second voice says from off-camera—Sarah, his sister. She sounds exhausted, like someone who has seen the end of the world three times already that week.
Elias pans back to the sedan. The car is empty, but the windshield wipers are suddenly frantic, scrubbing dry glass. The radio kicks in, blasting a distorted loop of a weather report from June 19, .
The grainy timestamp flickers in the corner of the screen, a digital scar on a midnight-blue landscape.
