The image froze on a close-up of his own eye. In the reflection of that eye, he saw the back of his own head in the theater seat. The projector light was a tiny, dying sun.
The screen split into four panels. Past, present, future, and the infinite hallway of what-ifs. Leo saw himself at eighty, alone in a room, still watching. He saw the version of himself who had never bought the ticket, walking past the theater with a laugh. uncut now playing
The man on screen looked up, directly into the lens, and whispered back, “Yes, it is. It’s the rough cut. The one they didn’t want you to see.” The image froze on a close-up of his own eye