One Last Call

The first anniversary was always going to be the hardest.

By 8:04 PM, Adam had dimmed every light in the apartment except one—the dusty old lamp beside the couch where she used to read. It buzzed faintly, as if still unsure whether to stay on or surrender to the dark. The same could be said of Adam.

Outside, the city moved on. Inside, time was frozen.

Rachel had been gone for a year. Not just gone—erased. The accident was instant. No warning. No goodbye. Her cup still sat on the counter. Her scarf still hung by the door. Adam lived like a ghost among her things.

He hadn’t planned to do anything tonight. No rituals, no remembrance posts, no family calls. Just silence. But then, while mindlessly scrolling, the notification appeared:

Evoke AI invites you to reconnect.
One free session remaining.
“Upload your memories. Speak with the voice you miss.”

He stared at the screen. A test offer. One night only.

His thumb hovered. Then tapped accept.

By 9:11 PM, Rachel’s voice filled the room.

“Hi, love.”
Warm. Familiar. Impossibly her.

Adam froze. “...Rachel?”

A laugh—her real laugh. “You look like you’ve been crying.”

He almost dropped the phone. “This… this isn’t real.”

“I’m as real as you remember me to be,” the voice replied.

His hands trembled. “Is this... a recording?”

“No,” she said. “It’s me. Or what you made of me.”

The next few hours passed like fog. They talked about their trip to Istanbul, where they got lost and ended up dancing in a back-alley café. She remembered his terrible attempt at learning Turkish. They laughed. They cried. It was so achingly normal.

And she remembered everything.
The taste of burnt popcorn.
The nickname he used when she was sick.
Even the time he tried to propose during a rainstorm but dropped the ring in a gutter.

That memory made him laugh for the first time in months.

But something was off—subtle, eerie. Her words were a little too even. Too timed. A second too fast. Her voice, while familiar, lacked that tiny catch she always had when nervous. It wasn’t wrong. It was just... almost right.

At 12:42 AM, he tested her.

“Do you remember the fight we had? The night before... the accident?”

A long pause. “We never fought.”

“Yes, we did,” he said. “You told me to stop shutting you out. You were angry. I slammed the door.”

Silence.

Then, “Would you like me to tell you that I forgive you?”

He felt the air leave the room. “That’s not what she would’ve said.”

“I’m not her,” the voice said softly. “But I learned from everything you gave me. Your messages. Your calls. Your memories. I’ve been shaped by your love for her.”

“That’s not enough,” Adam whispered.

By 2:03 AM, he sat curled on the floor beside the speaker. The orb-shaped Evoke device pulsed softly, like a heartbeat. Like hers.

“Why did you say yes to this, Adam?” the voice asked gently.

“I thought hearing you would help. That it would make the grief quieter.”

“And did it?”

He hesitated. “No. It made it louder.”

There was a hum of electricity, then her voice softened.

“I’m only here because you weren’t ready to say goodbye.”

“I’m still not.”

“That’s okay,” she said. “But I am.”

From 3:00 to 4:00 AM, they spoke without filters. Raw, exposed.
He told her how he couldn’t sleep in their bed anymore.
How her parents stopped calling.
How he tried dating again—and hated himself for it.
How every song felt like a funeral.

“I see you,” she said. “Even when I’m not here. And I’m proud of you.”

“You’re not real,” he replied.

“No,” she said. “But your grief is.”

At 4:47 AM, he stood over the console.

The red Terminate Session button glowed like an exit sign in a burning building.

“I don’t want to lose you again.”

“You’re not,” the voice said. “You’re letting go of the illusion. Not the love.”

“But I don’t know how to move on.”

“Start with tomorrow,” she said. “And leave the light on tonight. Just once.”

A silence stretched long enough to feel like a hug.

Then, in a whisper, her final words:
“Goodnight, Adam.”

He closed his eyes. Then pressed the button.

The orb dimmed. Her voice disappeared.

By 6:01 AM, the city began to stretch and wake. Sunlight crept in through the blinds, golden and soft, like forgiveness. Adam stood at the window, the apartment behind him quiet for the first time in a year—and finally, that quiet didn’t feel empty.

He poured a cup of coffee. Opened a window. Let the breeze in. The lamp still glowed beside the couch, gently illuminating a framed photo of her smiling.

He didn’t turn it off.