The Last Message at 3:07

The Last Message at 3:07

Blurb :

When a young nurse starts receiving texts from her deceased fiancé’s phone at exactly 3:07 a.m. every night, she thinks grief is playing tricks — until one message predicts her own future.

It began two months after the accident.

Mina had learned to live around the silence. She filled it with the hum of hospital corridors, the rhythm of beeping monitors, and the polite smiles she offered to patients.

But every night, at exactly 3:07 a.m., her phone vibrated once.

Always once.

The first time, she thought it was a system glitch.

Then she saw the name.

“Adil ❤️”

Her heart stopped. She had buried him herself. She had seen his broken watch, the one frozen at — she remembered too clearly — 3:07 a.m.

The message read:

“I’m still waiting.”

She didn’t sleep that night. She sat on the edge of her bed, phone in hand, staring at the dark window. Outside, rain whispered against the glass like someone gently knocking.

By morning, she convinced herself it was a cruel coincidence. Some hacker. A recycled number. Anything but him.

That night, she turned her phone off before bed.

Still, at 3:07 a.m., she woke to a buzz that wasn’t supposed to happen.

The phone was on. Battery full.

A new message blinked on the screen:

“You promised you’d come.”

Her hands trembled. She typed back:

“Who is this?”

The reply came instantly.

“You know who.”

Mina threw the phone on the table, heart pounding. But curiosity — grief’s cruel twin — gnawed at her. The next evening, she waited.

At 3:07 a.m., the message came again:

“It’s cold here.”

She typed back, “Stop. Please.”

“Then answer the door.”

She froze. Her apartment was silent — until she heard a soft, deliberate knock.

Three times.

Slow. Heavy.

“No,” she whispered, backing away. She didn’t move until dawn, when sunlight finally washed the room in pale gold and the knocking stopped.

At work, she told no one. Grief made people believe strange things. She knew that — she’d seen it in families who refused to let go of patients long gone.

But the messages kept coming. Every night, the same time. The same number. The same pleading tone.

Then one night, it changed.

“It’s not just me here anymore.”

Mina blinked.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

“What do you mean?” she typed.

No answer.

Instead, a photo appeared — grainy, dark. A hospital corridor. Room 307 on the door.

Her breath caught. That was her ward. Her room.

She checked the time. 3:07 a.m.

Her phone slipped from her hand as the ward lights flickered.

Down the hall, Room 307’s door creaked open by itself.

Mina ran toward it.

The bed was empty — her patient had died two hours ago.

But on the pillow was a phone. Old, scratched, and cracked — the same model as Adil’s.

On its dim screen glowed one message:

“Not long now.”

Her own phone buzzed again in her pocket. Another message.

“Turn around.”

She did.

Standing in the doorway was Adil — or something wearing his face.

Pale. Water dripping from his hair. His hospital tag still around his wrist.

“Mina,” he said softly. “You said you’d come with me.”

Her voice broke. “You’re not real.”

He took a step closer. “Then why can you still hear my heartbeat?”

She clutched her chest. The monitor beside the bed began to beep — her own name flashing on the patient record system.

Mina Khan — Admitted: 03:07 a.m. — Condition: Critical.

Her fingers went numb. She dropped the phone. The world dimmed to a tunnel of static and light.

In her final moment, she heard one last message vibrate against the floor tiles:

“Together again.”

The next morning, the nurse on the early shift found Mina’s body on the floor of Room 307.

Her phone was open beside her, still displaying a text conversation — the last line unsent.

It read:

“I’m coming, Adil.