The Last Voice Message

The first one came on a cold October morning.

Maya had just turned 28. She was standing in her kitchen with a mug of bitter coffee, watching the steam rise like it was trying to escape. The phone buzzed. No caller ID. Just a voicemail.

She nearly deleted it. Something made her listen.

“Hey dork, happy birthday. You still chew your pen caps when you're nervous? I hope not—those things probably have all kinds of germs. Anyway... I’m proud of you. Even if you still suck at math. I miss you, May.”

It was Lily’s voice.

Lily, who had died in a car accident exactly 11 months earlier.

Maya dropped the phone. It clattered on the tile floor, screen glowing dimly. Her breath caught in her throat. That voice, light and teasing, familiar as the scent of rain on warm pavement—impossible.

She played it again. Again. And again.

She didn’t tell anyone.

The second one came a year later, to the day. Maya had just blown out a candle on a grocery-store cupcake. She was alone. No party, no guests. Just her and silence.

Buzz. No caller ID. One new voicemail.

“Hey dork. Happy birthday. I know this year’s been hard. I know you think I’m not here—but I am. I’ve always been. You remember that night when we slept in the laundry room during the thunderstorm? You were scared. I wasn't. I pretended to be, though. So you'd feel braver. You still are. Braver than you know.”

Maya cried that night. For hours. Not the kind of weeping that wracked the body. The quiet kind. The kind that leaks out of the soul in silence.

By the third year, she knew to expect it.

She'd quit her job by then, moved to a new city, stopped trying to explain the messages. Every expert she’d consulted—techs, hackers, psychics, engineers—had shrugged. “Could be pre-scheduled recordings.” But no one could explain the voice changes. The way it referenced things that had happened after Lily’s death.

The messages became a ritual. A wound and a balm.

On her 31st birthday, the voicemail said:

“Hey dork. Happy birthday. I saw you painted again. The blue one—sunset over nothing. You never let yourself be empty before. That’s growth. I love it. I love you. Always.”

How could Lily have known? Maya hadn’t posted the painting. Hadn’t told a soul. It had felt too raw. Too... her.

Each year, Maya both dreaded and awaited the message. They weren’t just recordings. They were conversations. Hints. Winks from beyond a veil she couldn’t see through.

She started recording herself, talking back.

“Lily, are you real?”

“Where are you?”

“Are you at peace?”

No answers came. Just the annual message. The tether. The voice.

On her 35th birthday, the message was different.

“Hey dork. This is my last message. I know. That sucks. But it’s time. You’ve come so far, Maya. You sleep without the nightlight now. You trust yourself. You’re not looking over your shoulder waiting for the world to take something from you. I was scared to go. But I wasn’t scared for you. I knew you’d be okay. And you are. This is goodbye, May. But not the forever kind. Just the kind where I don’t have to worry anymore. Live loudly. Laugh wrong. Love badly. Do it all.”

A pause.

“And stop chewing pen caps, you gremlin. I love you. Always.”

The message ended.

Maya didn’t cry that year. She sat on her balcony, phone in hand, city noise below her, sky open above. She whispered into the wind:

“Goodbye, Lily.”

She never received another voicemail.

But every birthday after that, she left one.

Not to a number. Not to a device. Just to the air. Just in case Lily was still listening.