He dragged it to 2012.

The slider on the white screen began to move on its own, sliding backward from 2024 down to 1998. With every tick of the year, Elias felt a part of himself unspool. He remembered his first bike ride—gone. He remembered his graduation—static. He remembered his wife's face—pixelated and distorted.

"You took the shortcut, Eli," the historian said, his voice crackling like worn vinyl. "The grain eats the edges."

When the sun rose the next morning, the editing suite was silent. There was no Elias. Just a chair, a cold cup of coffee, and a single hard drive humming on the desk.

It was a bargain. A trade. Elias, exhausted, desperate, and running on caffeine and regret, grabbed his mouse. He dragged the slider up. He just wanted to see what would happen.