He Texted Me.. After the Funeral

He Texted Me… After the Funeral

The funeral was over.

The flowers had started to fade, and the air around me still smelled of incense and dust. Everyone had gone home, whispering their condolences as if words could fill the silence my father left behind.

I stayed behind.

The house was too quiet that night. My mother had fallen asleep with tear-stained eyes, and I sat alone in the study — the one place my father never let anyone touch. His desk still had his glasses, an unfinished note, and his old black phone lying beside it.

It hadn’t been charged in months.

For reasons I can’t explain, I picked it up and plugged it in. The screen flickered to life — dull and cracked — like it was waking from a long sleep.

Then it buzzed.

One new message.

Timestamp: 8:47 p.m. — the exact moment his coffin was lowered into the ground.

The sender name simply said: “Dad.”

> “I’m proud of you, son. Don’t forget the promise.”

My hands froze. I stared at it for minutes, hoping it was just a delayed message. But the SIM tray was empty. There was no network, no Wi-Fi. Nothing.

My first thought was denial. Maybe it was an old message that appeared late. Maybe my mind was playing tricks on me.

But the timestamp was today.

The Investigation Begins

I didn’t sleep that night. I tried calling the number. It said, “This number is not in service.”

Next morning, I went to the telecom office and asked them to trace any outgoing message from that device. The man at the counter looked puzzled and said,

> “Sir, that SIM was deactivated three years ago.”

Something inside me shifted. I went back home, opened my father’s old documents, and found his handwritten notes — the ones he kept when he worked as an electrical engineer. Among them was a small card with strange handwritten numbers — coordinates, maybe?

I entered them on Google Maps.

It pointed to an old house — our first home, the one we left ten years ago after a fire accident. That house was abandoned and sealed.

And yet, that’s where the signal came from.

The Visit

That evening, I drove there.

The gate was rusted, and the paint had peeled off the walls. The air inside was cold — unnaturally cold. I stepped inside, phone in hand, flashlight trembling.

There, in the middle of the living room floor, was something I didn’t expect — an old laptop, half-burnt, plugged into a dead socket.

When I touched the keyboard, the screen blinked once and displayed a folder named:

“Promise.”

My father’s name was on the file.

I opened it.

It was a letter — half-written.

> “If you’re reading this, it means I couldn’t keep my promise. But you still can. Don’t let the project die with me. It’s hidden in plain sight — the house will guide you.”

Then the screen went black.

The laptop died. The light flickered. And my father’s old phone in my pocket buzzed again.

> “Go to the attic.”

I froze. I didn’t want to believe it, but something stronger than fear made me climb those stairs.

The Discovery

The attic smelled of dust and ash. Old toys, photo frames, burnt wood — everything lay untouched since the fire. But in one corner, under a piece of cloth, I saw a metal box.

Inside were his engineering blueprints — sketches of some kind of energy device. At first glance, it looked like a wireless transmitter, but more advanced than anything I’d seen before.

On top of the pages was another note:

> “For my son. You’ll know what to do when the time comes.”

I sat there, speechless. My father wasn’t just an engineer; he was working on something experimental — something he’d promised to protect.

Maybe that was the promise he mentioned in the message.

The Realization

Days passed. I kept searching, decoding his notes, following his blueprints. I realized he had designed a small prototype — something capable of sending signals through inactive networks, even without cellular data.

It hit me like lightning.

What if… the message I got wasn’t paranormal at all? What if it was his final experiment working perfectly — his way of proving his invention even after death?

But one part of me didn’t want logic.

Because every night after that, at exactly 8:47 p.m., the phone buzzed again. No message. Just silence.

Almost as if he was checking in

The Psychological Twist

Weeks later, I decided to shut it all down.

I buried the phone and the blueprints in the same garden where we used to sit together every evening. I wanted peace.

But the next morning, there was a single text on my current phone — the one I used daily.

> “You did well, son. The promise is safe now.”

The number showed as Unknown Source.

My heart pounded, but I didn’t feel fear this time. Instead, I felt something warm — like a goodbye.

Sometimes, I still wonder if it was really technology… or something beyond it.

But every time I doubt, I remember his words:

> “The ones we love never really leave. Some connections just don’t need a signal.”

Conclusion

That was the night I stopped chasing answers. Some mysteries aren’t meant to be solved — they’re meant to be felt.

Because maybe the message wasn’t just from my father’s phone…

Maybe it was from wherever love goes when life ends.

And every night when 8:47 arrives, my phone still flickers once —

like a heartbeat that refuses to fade.

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