Digital Ghost

Digital Ghost

By [waseem khan]

The first message came three days before his death anniversary.

Lena was scrolling through her phone at midnight, half-asleep and half-bored, when she saw it—a new message from Ben.

She stared at the notification, the name familiar enough to freeze her breath but impossible enough to make her laugh nervously. Her thumb hovered, unsure whether to delete, open, or throw the phone across the room.

Ben had died eleven months ago. A hit-and-run. They never caught the driver.

Her hands trembled as she tapped the screen.

Ben: "You never changed the Netflix password, did you?"

Lena blinked. A joke—just like Ben. Sarcastic. Casual. But not funny now. Not from someone buried beneath earth and stone.

“Who is this?” she typed back, her heart hammering in her ears.

No response.

She set the phone down, convinced it was some cruel prank. Maybe someone hacked his old account. Maybe one of Ben’s old friends thought this was funny. Maybe she was just tired.

She barely slept.

The next day, she logged in and changed every password she could think of. She considered deleting Ben’s account, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. There was comfort in knowing it still existed—like a time capsule from before everything fell apart.

That night, another message.

Ben: "The photo behind the mirror in your room... don't throw it away."

She froze.

Behind her bedroom mirror was a childhood photo—her and Ben, muddy-faced and grinning after a rainstorm. She hadn’t thought about it in years. No one but her and Ben ever knew it was there.

Now she was afraid.

Lena called the service provider the next day. The account hadn’t been accessed from any new devices. No unusual login history. Nothing suspicious.

But the messages kept coming.

"You found the birthday card I hid in your winter coat last year. You cried, didn’t you?"

"Dad’s not okay. Talk to him. He’s still blaming himself."

Each message cut a little deeper. Each one touched a nerve so precise, so personal, that doubt slowly gave way to fear… and then something stranger.

Hope.

Could it be him?

Ben had always said technology was haunted. “Ghosts live in the code,” he used to joke. “If anything happens to me, I’ll find a way back through the Wi-Fi.”

She’d rolled her eyes. But now she wasn’t so sure.

One night, unable to sleep, she replied:

Lena: "Is this really you?"

No answer for hours.

Then:

Ben: "It’s the part of me that won’t let go."

She felt the tears coming. This wasn’t about hacking anymore. This was something else.

He messaged every night—always at 12:13 a.m., the exact minute of his death. Some messages were lighthearted, others solemn. He reminisced. He teased her. He even scolded her for skipping lunch.

"Stop eating cold pizza every night. I can see the grease on your keyboard."

She started living for the messages, dreading the silence between them. They became her second heartbeat.

Then, on the night before the anniversary, the messages changed.

Ben: "The man who hit me… he wasn’t a stranger."

Lena’s stomach dropped.

Ben: "Check the glove box of Dad’s old truck. The one he never sold."

She didn’t sleep.

At dawn, she drove to the old family garage, where the rusted truck had sat undisturbed for a year. She popped open the glove box.

Inside was a folded letter in Ben’s handwriting. A note he’d never mailed.

In it, he described how he had confronted someone—an old family friend—about illegal dealings he’d accidentally uncovered. He had been scared. He had planned to go to the police. And then... nothing. The note ended mid-sentence.

Lena took it to the police.

Within weeks, an investigation was reopened. Arrests were made. The man who had driven the car—once close to their family—was charged not just with the hit-and-run, but conspiracy and obstruction.

Ben had been right. He’d tried to stop something bigger. And it cost him his life.

The night after the case closed, Lena waited by her phone.

12:13 came.

No message.

12:14.

Still nothing.

She waited another hour. Nothing.

Ben had said what he needed to say.

His final message had been the truth.

She cried again, not from fear, or sadness, but gratitude.

Sometimes, at night, her phone screen lights up for no reason. Just a flicker. Just a glitch. She no longer checks it.

She whispers instead.

“Thanks, Ben. I didn’t forget.”

And in the silence, she swears she can hear him smile.