The Last Phone Call

The Last Phone Call

Some calls aren't meant to be answered.

By Darwesh

The phone rang at 1:47 a.m.

I hadn’t heard it ring in weeks — not since I moved to the cottage in the hills, far from the city, far from the memories. The landline came with the place. I never gave the number to anyone.

But it rang. Three times. Then silence.

I sat up in bed, heart thudding. Maybe a wrong number. Maybe some late-night prank. But in the quiet of the countryside, where even the trees seem to listen, a phone ringing in the dead of night doesn’t feel harmless.

Then it rang again.

I picked it up on the second ring, hands trembling.

“Hello?”

There was static. Then a voice I hadn’t heard in six months — calm, steady, unmistakably his:

“You should’ve let me explain.”

I froze. My throat went dry.

“Daniel?” I whispered.

No response. Just breathing.

“You didn’t have to leave like that,” the voice continued. “I was trying to protect you.”

I slammed the phone down. My whole body shook.

Daniel was dead.

He died six months ago. I had seen his body. I had buried him.

The coroner said it was an overdose. Pills. Alcohol. Depression, they said. But Daniel was never careless, never the type to spiral.

And still… I ran. After everything, I left the city, cut off everyone, and came here to forget. Or try to.

The phone stayed silent the rest of the night.

The next morning, I checked the caller ID. The number was all zeroes: 000-000-0000.

I called the phone company. They said the line hadn’t received any incoming calls overnight.

“Must’ve been a glitch,” the technician said casually.

“Happens sometimes in remote areas.”

A glitch doesn’t know my name. A glitch doesn’t speak in a dead man’s voice.

I tried to convince myself it was a dream — maybe a hallucination, leftover grief mixed with insomnia. I even laughed at how fragile I must’ve become.

Until that evening, when I found the letter.

It was in the mailbox. No postage. Just a plain white envelope with my name on it — in his handwriting.

Inside was a single sheet of paper, folded once.

"I never lied to you. I never cheated. I was being watched. That night, I told you to leave because they were listening. The overdose — it wasn’t mine. Look under the floorboards, where we kept the photo album. I’m sorry I couldn’t keep you safe."

I dropped the letter. My knees buckled beneath me.

The photo album.

That old, dusty thing we used to flip through on quiet Sunday afternoons. We kept it in a hidden floor compartment in our old apartment. But this house — I was alone here. How did the letter know where I’d moved?

Unless…

Unless he had known I’d come here before he died.

Panic set in.

I tore through the bedroom, checking every inch of the wooden floor. In the far corner, beneath the dresser, I found it — a warped board that creaked differently than the rest.

I pried it open.

There was no photo album. But there was something wrapped in cloth — a flash drive and a hotel keycard.

Attached was a sticky note: Room 417. Ask for J. Ortega.

I sat on my bed for hours, staring at the items, trying to decide what to do.

The next morning, I drove to the address printed on the keycard. A cheap hotel downtown. The clerk didn’t blink when I asked for Ortega — just nodded and handed me a second key.

Room 417 was dark. The curtains drawn. A man sat at the desk, facing away.

“You’re Rachel?” he asked.

I nodded.

He turned slowly. Late 50s. Tired eyes. Gun holstered at his side.

“I worked with Daniel,” he said. “He wasn’t what you thought. He was undercover.”

My breath caught.

“Undercover?”

“He was investigating a trafficking ring. Deep stuff. He didn’t want you involved. But they found out he had someone — you. That’s why he pushed you away.”

I tried to speak, but no sound came out.

Ortega slid a file across the table — photos, transcripts, reports. All Daniel’s. All proof.

> “They got to him first,” Ortega said quietly. “Made it look like a suicide. We’ve been trying to piece it together since. You were never supposed to get that call.”

I showed him the letter. The voice on the phone.

He stared at it, then looked at me grimly.

> “That line was disconnected the day after Daniel died.”

> “That voice you heard… maybe it was a warning. Or a goodbye.”

I never returned to the cottage.

I moved again, this time with no forwarding address.

But sometimes, when the house is quiet and I forget to unplug the line, the phone rings.

Always just once.

Always at 1:47 a.m.

I don’t answer anymore.

Because I know who it is.

And some goodbyes… are meant to echo forever.