The film froze. A message appeared in white text on black:

The man turned. It was Leo, but twenty years older. He didn’t speak. He just pointed at the screen. On it, a younger Leo was walking into his apartment, keys in hand, a decision hanging in the air: call her back or don’t. The older Leo shook his head slowly. Then he pointed again—not at the screen, but past it. At the real Leo. At the pause button of his own life.

The camera reached the front row. A man sat there, alone. Older. Bald. Same gray sweater Leo wore now.