My Twin Sister Died in 2005—But She Still Texts Me

I was only fifteen when my twin sister, Eliza, died.

It was a rainy October afternoon in 2005. We were supposed to walk home together from school, but I stayed behind for a group project. Eliza took the shortcut through the woods—something we’d promised Mom we wouldn’t do anymore. A fallen branch. A slippery hill. A single misstep. They found her body at the bottom of the ravine two days later. Broken. Still clutching her phone.

We buried her with it.

I stopped speaking for weeks. The silence between us had never been this loud. She was my echo, my mirror, my other half. And then she was just… gone.

Fifteen years passed. I moved away, changed my number, changed my name even—anything to escape the memories. Until I got the first text.

"Don’t forget your red scarf. It’s cold today."

It came from a number I didn’t recognize. Simple. Harmless. Random. Except—I had just reached for my red scarf seconds before the phone buzzed.

I ignored it.

But the texts kept coming.

"That guy you’re dating? He’s lying."

"You’re going to miss the train if you don’t leave now."

"Stop pretending you’re okay."

And the worst one:

"Why did you leave me?"

They weren’t spam. They weren’t pranks. They were… her. Or something pretending to be her.

I did everything to trace the number—apps, phone companies, even a police report. “No registered user,” they said. “Must be spoofed.” I tried changing my number again. The messages followed. Always from different numbers. Always the same voice.

Eliza knew things no one else could.

Like the hidden diary under my mattress. Or the fact that I still sing to myself in the shower. She even referenced a childhood game we used to play, called “Switch,” where we’d pretend to be each other and see if Mom could tell.

"Let’s Switch again. Just one more time?"

One night, I got a text at exactly 2:14 a.m.—the time she died.

"I saw you in my dream. The place with the blue door."

I sat up in bed, heart racing. The blue door was real—it belonged to our grandmother’s abandoned house upstate. A place I hadn’t thought about in years. I had to see it again.

I drove there the next morning, gripped by a feeling I couldn't explain.

The house was decaying, swallowed by vines and time. But the blue door was still intact. I pushed it open and stepped into our childhood.

In the attic, I found a dusty box with our names scrawled across it: Liza & Lina. Inside were photo albums, notes we’d passed in class, even a mix CD she made me before she died. I hadn’t seen it in forever.

Beneath it all, there was a Polaroid of us at age seven, smiling, arms around each other. On the back, in my sister’s handwriting:

"If I ever disappear, I’ll find a way back to you. I promise."

I collapsed into tears.

That night, I got the final message:

"You found it. Now you can let me go."

And just like that, the texts stopped.

It’s been three years. I haven’t heard from her since. But I still keep the phone charged, tucked in my nightstand, just in case.

Some part of me believes Eliza really did find her way back—long enough to remind me of our bond, and long enough to say goodbye.

Or maybe grief is a ghost that learns to speak in static and signals.

Either way, I believe her.

Because love that deep doesn’t just vanish. It lingers.

In photos, in memories… and sometimes, in text messages from the other side.