The Last Phone Call

The Last Phone Call

The phone rang at 2:13 a.m.

At first, I thought it was a dream. The kind where you wake up sweating, unsure of what’s real. But the sound was persistent, sharp. I reached over, eyes still half-closed, and stared at the screen.

Unknown Number.

Something inside me tightened. Nobody calls at this hour with good news.

“Hello?” I answered, voice hoarse.

There was silence on the other end. Then a breath. Shaky, deliberate.

“Claire?”

My heart dropped.

“Who is this?” I asked.

More breathing. Then finally:

“It’s me. Don’t hang up.”

The voice was unmistakable. Cracked, older, but familiar.

It was Ethan.

The man I buried five years ago.


---

We had been engaged once. Young, reckless, and full of plans. He had gone hiking alone that summer, wanting “one last adventure” before settling into city life. They found his backpack, torn and soaked, near the edge of a river. No body, no final word—just a note in his journal that said: “Sometimes, you have to disappear to find yourself.”

I waited for months. Then I gave in. I held the funeral. I moved on—mostly.

And now, here he was. Or someone pretending to be him.

“What kind of sick joke is this?” I snapped, sitting upright in bed.

“It’s not a joke,” he whispered. “I didn’t die. But I need you to listen carefully. I don’t have much time.”

My mind raced. The logical part of me wanted to hang up, block the number, go back to sleep and pretend it was a dream. But the part of me that once loved him—deeply, recklessly—needed to know more.

“Where have you been?” I asked.

“Hiding.”

“From what?”

Another pause.

“I can’t explain everything now. But I’m in trouble, Claire. Real trouble. And you’re the only one who ever really knew me.”

I got out of bed, pacing. “Ethan, you’ve been gone for five years. Everyone thinks you’re dead. I mourned you. I buried you.”

“I know,” he said, almost breaking. “I’m sorry. I thought I could protect you by staying away. I was wrong.”

I sat on the edge of the bed, trembling. “Protect me from what?”

“You’ll understand soon. I just needed to hear your voice one last time. And to tell you something I never said.”

I froze.

“I was going to propose that night,” he said. “Before I left. I had the ring in my pocket the whole time. I thought I needed to find myself first. But I was wrong. You were it. You were always it.”

Tears welled up, uninvited.

“Why now?” I whispered. “Why call me now?”

“Because I might not get another chance.”

“Are you in danger?”

There was a click on the line. Static. Then his voice again, hurried now.

“They’re tracing the call. I shouldn’t have contacted you. But I had to say goodbye.”

“Ethan, wait—where are you?”

A deep breath.

“There’s a storage locker in Jersey, unit 12B. The key’s behind the third brick from the left in our old apartment’s alley. Everything’s in there. The truth.”

Then silence.

“Ethan?”

Nothing.

“Ethan, please—!”

Click.

The line went dead.


---

I sat there for hours, phone in hand, replaying the conversation in my head. By sunrise, I was in my car, heart pounding as I drove toward the old apartment.

I found the alley exactly as I remembered. Time had rusted the fire escape and faded the graffiti, but the brick was loose—just like he said. I pulled it free and felt something cold and small slide into my palm.

The key.

Part of me still thought this was a game. Some elaborate hallucination or breakdown. But then I drove to the storage facility. And found unit 12 B.

Inside was a metal box, dusty and locked. The key turned with a reluctant click.

Inside, I found a notebook, some photographs, a flash drive… and a gun.

My hands shook as I opened the journal.

The first page read:

“If you’re reading this, I’m already gone. But now you’ll know why.”


---

It’s been six months since that call.

The contents of that box unraveled everything I knew about Ethan—and about the people he was running from. I can’t say more without risking everything, but what I can say is this:

Sometimes people disappear because they have no choice. Because the truth is more dangerous than the lie.

But that one call—that final moment—gave me something I didn’t know I needed:

Closure.

Even if the man I once loved vanished into the shadows, I got to hear his voice one last time. I got to say goodbye.

And somewhere, in the blur between grief and truth, that’s enough.