I Still Receive Messages From My Wife—Three Years After Her Funeral

Every message knows something only the dead should remember

By Anees Ul Ameen

The first message arrived on a quiet Sunday night, exactly three years after my wife’s funeral.

I was sitting alone on the couch, scrolling mindlessly, when my phone vibrated. I didn’t recognize the number, but the message itself made my breath catch.

Did you remember me today?

My chest tightened.

That was something Mariam used to ask when she felt ignored, when she wanted reassurance that she still mattered.

Mariam died in a car accident. Closed casket. Confirmed. Buried.

I stared at the screen until it went dark.

I told myself it was coincidence. Someone cruel. A prank.

I blocked the number.

At 2:13 a.m., my phone buzzed again.

Same message.

Same words.

Different number.

You promised you wouldn’t forget.

I stopped sleeping after that.

The messages came every night, always at 2:13—the exact time the police said her car hit the divider.

They weren’t threatening. They weren’t demanding.

They were intimate.

You still leave the bathroom light on.

You never learned how to fold laundry properly.

You hated sleeping without the fan.

Details no one else knew.

Details I barely allowed myself to remember.

One night, shaking, I replied.

Me: This isn’t funny. Please stop.

The reply came instantly.

Mariam:

I never liked jokes.

I dropped the phone.

She used to say that whenever I teased her.

Grief does strange things to the mind. That’s what my therapist said when I finally showed him the messages. He suggested stress hallucinations, unresolved trauma, guilt.

Especially guilt.

Because I hadn’t been in the car with her that night.

We argued. I stayed home. She drove off angry.

She never came back.

The messages changed after that.

They grew colder.

Why didn’t you come with me?

You chose silence over me.

I waited.

I stopped replying, but that didn’t stop them.

One night, a photo arrived.

Our bedroom.

Taken from the doorway.

I was sitting on the bed in the picture.

Alone.

I ran through the apartment, heart pounding. Every door was locked. Windows shut. No one there.

My phone vibrated again.

I can still come home.

I packed a bag that night and went to my mother’s house.

The messages followed.

You always run when things get hard.

This isn’t goodbye.

Desperate, I visited the cemetery.

Mariam’s grave was neat, untouched. Flowers I didn’t remember placing lay fresh on the soil.

My phone buzzed.

You finally came.

The air felt heavy, like the world was holding its breath.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, tears burning my eyes. “I loved you.”

The phone vibrated one last time.

Then why did you leave me alone?

The ground shifted slightly.

Just enough.

I don’t remember leaving the cemetery.

I don’t remember the walk home.

But my phone stopped buzzing after that night.

Weeks passed.

Then months.

Silence.

People say I’m healing now.

I laugh more. I sleep again. I even smile when I talk about Mariam.

But sometimes, when I’m half-asleep, I hear my phone vibrate softly on the nightstand.

When I check it in the morning, there’s no notification.

No missed calls.

Just one unsent draft.

Typed at 2:13 a.m.

I’m still waiting. mnhljkhkbmh ,hlhkuhhmb,mj,jn,bhjbm,njgjhb n,bmtfhn ,jbuki,jhfsd bhfgh

— Written by Anees Ul Ameen

Author’s Note:

This story was written with the assistance of AI and carefully edited, revised, and finalized by Anees Ul Ameen.