It was late August in Cedarville, and the backup drive had been sitting untouched in a box from my grandmother's estate — one of those old external drives from the early 2000s, thick and heavy, with a green LED that blinked slow. I plugged it in expecting family photos, maybe tax returns from 2005. Instead, I found a single folder labelled 'Turtle Creek' with over a thousand JPEGs — all dated the same summer: 1999. The first few were ordinary: a white house with peeling paint, a gravel driveway, a woman in a floral dress standing on the porch. Then the photos started repeating the same house, same woman, same angle, but the light was wrong — the shadows stretched east at noon, the windows were dark when they should have caught the sun. I counted seventy-three photos of the same front door, each one slightly different — the crack in the storm door glass growing like a fault line, the woman's dress fading from floral to grey, her face turning away from the camera until, by photo #200, she was just a silhouette in the doorway. The last photo was taken from inside the house looking out. The back of a woman's head, grey dress, standing at the sink. The window above the sink showed the driveway — and in the driveway, headlights. A car I recognized. Mine.