The first package arrived the day after my grandmother’s funeral. It contained nothing except an old VHS tape with a label that read, WATCH ALONE. JANUARY 12, 1998
My uncle grabbed my arm so hard it hurt. “We’re leaving,” he whispered, but neither of us moved. The words on the projector screen were still wet, as though the ink had just been written. Then another sentence slowly appeared beneath the first. You were never supposed to watch this version. The projector suddenly began running again without anyone touching it. The older version of me on the screen looked directly into the camera and smiled. “Good,” he said. “That means the film finally reached you.” I stared in disbelief. “How is this possible?” The man in the film seemed to hear the question. “Because this isn’t a recording,” he replied. “It’s a conversation.” Every hair on my arms stood up. My uncle backed toward the door, shaking his head. “No… no, this isn’t happening.” The older me continued speaking. “Don’t let him leave the house.” Before I could react, my uncle yanked the front door open. The porch outside was gone. Instead of the familiar front yard, there was only thick gray fog stretching in every direction. He stepped through the doorway anyway. The moment his foot touched the mist, he disappeared without making a sound. I rushed after him, but the older me shouted from the projector, “Close the door!” I slammed it shut. Silence filled the farmhouse. I threw the door open again less than a second later. The front yard had returned. The porch was exactly where it belonged. My uncle’s car still sat in the driveway. But he was gone. His footprints stopped halfway across the wooden porch as though he had simply ceased to exist. Panicking, I called his phone. A woman answered. “Who are you trying to reach?” she asked politely. I told her my uncle’s name. There was a pause. “I’m sorry,” she said. “There’s no one by that name at this number.” I called my mother next. “Mom, Uncle David is missing!” She sounded confused. “David?” she asked. “Honey… your mother never had a brother.” I slowly lowered the phone. Every photograph we had looked through together, every conversation we’d had my entire life, every birthday and holiday suddenly felt uncertain. I rushed back to the dining room table where the family albums still lay open. Every picture that had included my uncle was different now. The empty spaces where he had once stood were filled with furniture, trees, or other relatives. It was as if he had never existed. The projector clicked again. The older version of me looked exhausted. “I told you not to let him leave.” “Where did he go?” I asked. “The same place your grandfather went.” “They’re dead?” “No.” He shook his head. “They’re unwitnessed.” I frowned. “What does that mean?” He pointed toward one of the old bookshelves lining the wall. “Pull the third shelf.” I did. The entire bookcase swung open, revealing a narrow staircase descending beneath the farmhouse. The air below smelled of damp stone and old paper. I switched on my flashlight and slowly walked down. The staircase ended in a circular room unlike anything I expected. Thousands of film reels covered the walls from floor to ceiling. Every metal canister carried the name of a person followed by dates. Some belonged to complete strangers. Others carried the names of people I knew. My parents. My grandmother. Childhood friends. Even mine. My reel was much thicker than the others. As I reached for it, the older me shouted from upstairs. “Don’t open yours!” I froze. Instead, I picked up my grandfather’s reel. The label read Arthur Collins — 1942–Present. Present. Not deceased. My grandfather wasn’t listed as dead. Before I could remove the lid, another sound echoed through the underground room. It wasn’t coming from the projector above. It came from somewhere behind the shelves. Someone was slowly clapping. Once… twice… three times. A hidden door opened between two walls of film canisters. An elderly man stepped into the light wearing a faded cinema usher’s uniform, carrying a flashlight and a roll of ticket stubs. He smiled as though he’d been expecting me for years. “You’re earlier than the others,” he said. “That’s unusual.” I asked who he was. Instead of answering, he walked to my film reel and gently brushed the dust from the label. Then he looked me in the eyes and quietly asked the one question I never expected to hear. “Would you like to watch the life you’re actually living… or the one everyone else remembers?”