Ethan still had the original footage.

For thirteen months, the high-definition video file had remained stored in his smartphone’s internal memory, labeled *IMG_4821_Dalton_Class.mp4*.

It was backed up to his family’s private cloud server, preserved as part of the official legal archive for the criminal and administrative trials.

On an overcast Saturday afternoon in November of their eighth-grade year, Ethan and Noah were sitting on the wooden front porch of the Reed house, splitting a large bowl of salted popcorn while their bicycles leaned against the maple tree in the yard.

Ethan pulled his phone from his pocket to check the time, his thumb accidentally brushing against the media gallery album marked *School Evidence.*

The thumbnail of Room 204 appeared on the screen—the green chalkboard, Noah’s pale profile, and the wooden ruler resting on the edge of the desk blotter.

Ethan looked at the screen for a long moment, then turned the phone toward Noah.

"You know I still have it, right?" Ethan asked quietly.

Noah looked down at the tiny glowing rectangle, seeing the twelve-year-old version of himself holding his hand against his ribs.

He didn't flinch.

He didn't feel the sudden knot of nausea in his stomach that used to hit him whenever someone mentioned Room 204.

"Does it weird you out having it on your phone?" Noah asked, grabbing a handful of popcorn.

Ethan shrugged, his thumb hovering over the interface.

"The trials are over, Noah. The school board finished the appeals last month, and her license was officially voided by the state commission."

Ethan looked directly into his friend’s eyes.

"We don't need to prove anything to anyone anymore. Everyone knows what happened."

Noah smiled softly, nodding his head once.

"Yeah. Everyone knows."

Ethan tapped the trashcan icon in the bottom right corner of the screen.

A dialog box popped up: *Permanently delete this media file from device storage?*

Ethan didn't hesitate.

He tapped *Confirm Delete.*

The screen flashed once, the thumbnail vanished into empty black pixels, and the file was gone forever.

Ethan locked the phone and slid it back into his jacket pocket.

"Come on," Noah said, standing up and grabbing his bicycle handlebars. "Mr. Davis said the lake path is open before the frost hits. Let's race to the bridge."