Atid-260

You realize, with a soft horror, that you are not the viewer.

You load the disc. The player groans—a mechanical sigh, a reluctant resurrection. For a moment, nothing. Static like grainy wool. Then, an image: a room. Not your room. A room with floral curtains and a window facing a brick wall. A chair. Empty. A glass of water on a table, half-full. atid-260

You are the unlabeled disc next to it.

You do not remember buying it. You do not remember the face that once filled its frame. But late at night, when the city’s hum drops to a drone, you feel the weight of it in your palm. Not heavy. Dense . As if someone compressed an entire season into this shallow disc—autumn rain, a half-smoked cigarette, the particular silence between two people who have said goodbye for the last time. You realize, with a soft horror, that you are not the viewer

No one appears. No voice speaks.