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When he woke up the next morning, the apartment was empty. The computer was still on, but the wallpaper had changed. The footprints on the screen no longer led toward the trees. They led back toward the door, which was now firmly shut.

It was a close-up of a heavy oak door, slightly ajar. A single set of footprints led away from the camera, toward the treeline. Elias found himself staring at the resolution—so crisp he could see the individual flakes of frost on the iron hinges. He set it as his background. When he woke up the next morning, the apartment was empty

On the rug beneath Elias’s desk, there was a small, melting pile of fresh snow. They led back toward the door, which was now firmly shut

The cursor hovered over the file labeled Elias found himself staring at the resolution—so crisp

showed a small cedar shack tucked under the heavy boughs of a spruce tree, its windows glowing with a low, amber light.

Elias had downloaded it on a whim during a particularly humid July night in the city. Now, as the first real snow of December began to blur the world outside his window, he finally clicked "Extract."