The Last Phone Call

The rain hadn’t stopped for three days.

Each drop hit the window like tiny knocks from the past — soft but unending.

Alina sat on the edge of her bed, staring at her phone. The screen showed the last message from her mother:

“Please call me when you get time. I miss you.”

That message was sent five months ago.

Alina never replied. She was always too busy — meetings, deadlines, travel.

She told herself she would call “tomorrow,” but tomorrow never came.

Now, her mother was gone.

The Return Home

The call came two nights ago — a quiet voice from her aunt.

“Alina, your mother had a heart attack… she’s no more.”

No more.

Those words kept echoing in her mind as she drove the long road to her childhood home in Abbott Town.

The house stood at the end of a silent street — white paint fading, curtains half drawn.

It still smelled of rosewater and cinnamon — her mother’s favorite scent.

Her mother, Sadia, had lived alone since her father’s death.

Alina had moved to the city, chasing a career, convincing herself that distance didn’t matter.

But now, standing at the doorway, she felt like a stranger in her own home.

Echoes of the Past

The house was neat, like her mother had been expecting a guest.

On the dining table sat a teapot, two cups, and a half-finished scarf — the one Sadia had been knitting for Alina.

Tears welled up in her eyes as she touched the soft wool.

A note lay beside it, written in her mother’s elegant handwriting:

“For my daughter, who still makes me proud.”

Alina’s chest tightened.

She walked from room to room, touching every memory — the old clock, the bookshelf, the framed photo of her parents holding her as a baby.

Everything felt frozen, as if time had stopped the day Sadia died.

In her mother’s bedroom, the bed was perfectly made.

On the side table lay an old cell phone — not the smartphone her mother never learned to use, but a small button phone from years ago.

Curious, Alina picked it up. The battery light blinked weakly.

When she pressed the power button, the screen flickered to life.

The Missed Calls

The phone showed five missed calls — all from Alina’s number.

She frowned. That didn’t make sense.

She hadn’t called her mother in months.

Scrolling through, she saw the call log —

Three calls from her mother to her.

Five calls from her number back to her mother — all made after her mother’s death date.

Her hands trembled.

Maybe someone else had her SIM card?

No — her phone was right there in her bag.

A chill crawled up her spine.

She pressed “play” on the voicemail icon.

Her heart almost stopped when she heard her own voice — soft, shaky, full of tears —

“Mom… I’m sorry. Please talk to me. Please pick up…”

But she never remembered leaving that message.

She dropped the phone, her breath coming fast.

Was it some network glitch?

Or was grief making her imagine things?

The Neighbor’s Words

That evening, Mrs. Kamal, her mother’s elderly neighbor, came to visit.

Her wrinkled eyes softened when she saw Alina.

“My dear, your mother was so lonely,” she said, holding Alina’s hands.

“She talked about you every day. She said she still heard your voice sometimes — on the phone, late at night.”

Alina’s throat tightened. “That’s impossible, I hadn’t spoken to her in months.”

The old woman sighed. “Then maybe love finds its own way to talk.”

Before leaving, she added quietly,

“The night she died, I saw her sitting by the window, talking on the phone… smiling.”

The Letter

That night, Alina couldn’t sleep.

Rain tapped gently on the roof, like whispers she couldn’t understand.

She sat in her mother’s room again, staring at the phone.

Then she noticed something else — an envelope tucked beneath the pillow.

Her mother’s handwriting again.

It read: “To Alina — if I don’t get the chance to say goodbye.”

Her hands shook as she opened it.

“My sweet daughter,

I know life has taken you far from me, and I understand.

I only wish you knew how proud I am.

Every night, I hold my old phone, hoping to hear your voice again.

Sometimes, I dream you call me — and in the dream, I pick up, and we talk like we used to.

Maybe it’s only a dream, but it feels real enough to make me smile.

Don’t be sorry, my child. Love never dies — it only changes rooms.”

Tears blurred her eyes.

She pressed the letter to her heart, whispering, “I’m sorry, Mom.”

Just then, the phone buzzed.

The Call

Alina jumped.

The old phone screen glowed in the dark — Incoming call: “My Daughter.”

Her breath caught.

It was her mother’s phone number calling from a disconnected SIM.

Her trembling hand reached for it.

She pressed “answer.”

“Hello?” she whispered.

Static filled the line. Then, softly —

“Alina… is that you?”

Her heart stopped. It was her mother’s voice — faint, distant, like coming from far away.

“Mom? Mom, how are you—”

“You called me, remember? You said you missed me…”

“I— I didn’t! I mean… I don’t know—”

“It’s okay, sweetheart. I heard you. I just wanted to say… I forgive you.”

Alina’s eyes filled with tears.

“Please don’t go, Mom. Please stay.”

“You have to live, my love. Don’t let regret be your home.”

The line went silent.

Then came a faint humming — her mother’s favorite lullaby — before the call ended.

Alina screamed into the darkness, “Mom! Come back!”

The phone slipped from her hands and hit the floor.

The screen cracked.

The battery died.

And the room fell completely silent.

The Recording

The next morning, Alina decided to charge the phone one last time.

When it turned on, she found a new voice recording saved — timestamped after midnight, when the call had happened.

She pressed play.

At first, there was static. Then her mother’s soft voice:

“If you’re hearing this, my darling, then I’m finally where I belong.

Please forgive yourself.

Love is never late — even if it arrives after goodbye.”

Alina covered her mouth as sobs shook her.

She pressed the phone to her chest and cried until dawn.

The Twist

A week later, Alina prepared to leave the house. She placed fresh roses on her mother’s photo and whispered, “I’ll visit often.”

As she turned to go, her own phone buzzed — one new voicemail.

When she opened it, her blood ran cold.

The message was from her mother’s number.

It played automatically:

“Alina, don’t drive today. Stay home.”

The time stamp read 10 minutes into the future.

Her hands trembled. She looked at the clock — 9:50 a.m.

Her phone buzzed again — unknown number calling.

She answered.

A man’s voice said, “Ma’am, I’m sorry to inform you. There’s been a terrible accident on Highway 12. A car registered to your name…”

Her knees gave out.

She hadn’t even left yet.

She dropped the phone and ran to the window.

Outside, the rain had started again — gentle, endless, and cold.

She whispered, “Mom… you saved me.”

Then she looked down at her mother’s photo — and for just a second, she thought the lips in the picture had curved into a faint smile.

A Month Later

Alina decided to move back home permanently.

She opened her own small art studio in the front room — her mother’s favorite place.

On the first day, as she painted, the phone on the side table buzzed again.

She froze. It was that old button phone.

The screen lit up: “Message Received — From: Mom.”

Heart pounding, she opened it.

There was only one line:

“I’m proud of you, my daughter. Keep living.”

Tears streamed down her face.

She placed the phone by the window, where the rainlight touched it softly.

For the first time in years, she smiled — not out of happiness, but peace.

Because sometimes, love doesn’t need a body to stay.

It only needs a connection strong enough to travel across worlds.