The Last Missed Call

It was 2:17 AM when Amina’s phone lit up beside her pillow.

The room was silent, except for the soft ticking of the old wall clock. She blinked, disoriented, then reached for her phone. Her heart nearly stopped.

Mama ❤️

Incoming Call.

Her thumb hovered over the screen—but the call ended before she could answer.

She sat up, heart pounding. She hadn’t seen that name in years. She had deleted it long ago, hadn’t she? After the funeral. After the endless days of grief. After the silence that replaced her mother’s voice.

Five years.

Five birthdays.

Five years of wishing for one more hug.

One more laugh.

One more phone call.

She opened her call log.

2:17 AM — Missed Call — Mama ❤️

Tears welled up in her eyes.

Maybe it was a mistake. A prank. Maybe someone had spoofed the number. But deep down, she knew. That name, that number, that time—it meant something.

She got out of bed and walked barefoot to the kitchen. The cold tiles sent a shiver up her spine. She poured herself a glass of water, her hands trembling.

Then the notification came.

Voicemail received. One new message.

Amina dropped the glass. It shattered across the floor.

She stared at the phone. Her breath caught in her throat. She opened the voicemail app.

There it was. One new message. No number. Just the word: Unknown.

Her finger hovered again.

Then she pressed play.

The voice was soft. Familiar. A whisper wrapped in static.

“Amina... sweetheart…”

She gasped.

It was her mother’s voice.

“I’m sorry I had to leave so soon. I wanted to stay. I really did. But the world had other plans.”

There was a pause. A long, aching silence.

“I’ve watched you grow. I was there when you got your first job. When you cried in the bathroom and didn’t tell anyone. When you baked that cake and pretended not to remember it was your birthday.”

Amina’s lips quivered. She was trembling now.

“You’ve always been stronger than you know. But even strong people need to cry. It’s okay to miss me. I miss you, too.”

Another pause.

“You said it once, before you went to sleep... ‘I wish you could call me one last time.’ So... here I am. One last time.”

The voice grew softer, almost fading into air.

“I love you, Amina. Always. Forever.”

And then—nothing.

The message ended.

Amina sat alone on the kitchen floor, surrounded by broken glass and pieces of a world she thought she had buried. She sobbed—not from fear, but from something else.

A release.

She hadn’t cried like this since the funeral. Not really. She had bottled it up, locked it inside, and thrown away the key.

Now the bottle was open. Overflowing.

She picked up her phone again.

The voicemail was gone.

So was the call log.

It was as if nothing had happened.

No proof. No trace.

Only the feeling. The knowing.

And something else.

On the floor, among the glass shards, lay a folded piece of paper. It hadn’t been there before.

Amina picked it up.

Her breath caught.

It was the last letter she’d written to her mother after the funeral but never mailed. The one she burned in the backyard.

It was whole.

She unfolded it, hands shaking. Her own handwriting, smudged by old tears. But at the bottom, a new line had appeared.

In her mother’s handwriting.

“Letter received. Message returned. I’m always with you.”

That night, Amina didn’t sleep. She sat near the window, watching the stars, holding the letter in her hands like it was her mother’s hand.

The wind outside whispered like a lullaby. The ticking clock no longer felt empty.

She knew it wasn’t a dream.

She had gotten her goodbye.

And somehow, her mother had gotten hers.

Author’s Note:

Some calls don’t need signal. Some messages are delivered by memory, by grief, by love that never dies.

The Last Missed Call is a reminder that even in silence, some voices still speak