The Message That Arrived After His Death

A week after my father’s funeral, I got a message from his number.

At first, I thought it was a mistake. The message said, “Don’t sell the house yet. There’s something you need to find.”

My heart raced. My father’s phone had been buried with him. I knew because I placed it in the coffin myself. It was his wish to be buried with the phone, though I never understood why. He said it was his way of staying “connected.”

For a long minute, I just stared at the screen. The number was real. The message came at 3:07 a.m. I called back, but the call didn’t go through. “Number unreachable,” the voice said.

I didn’t tell anyone. My mother would panic, and my sister would laugh it off. But I couldn’t ignore it. That house was still locked, waiting for us to decide what to do with it. My father had lived there his entire life. It was full of his books, his broken radio, and his silence.

The next morning, I drove there. The key still hung on my keychain. When I stepped inside, everything felt frozen in time. His slippers were beside the bed. The cup on the table still had tea stains.

I sat on his chair, the one by the window where he used to read newspapers. The house creaked in the wind. For the first time, I noticed a framed photo on his desk—me, at age ten, holding a soccer trophy. Behind the photo, taped to the frame, was a folded piece of paper.

It had my name on it.

My hands trembled as I unfolded it.

He had written in his neat handwriting:

“If you’re reading this, I’m probably gone. I left something for you. It’s under the floor, near my desk. Find it before you decide to let go of this house.”

I put the note down and knelt on the floor. The wooden boards were old and uneven. I tapped them until I heard a hollow sound. One of the planks lifted easily. Beneath it was a small wooden box, dusty but intact.

Inside the box was a notebook, wrapped in an old handkerchief. On the first page, he had written, “My Life, My Lessons.”

The pages were filled with short messages, each dated, each written late at night.

“Don’t waste time proving others wrong.”

“Be kind, even when it’s not returned.”

“I wish I had said sorry sooner.”

“If you’re reading this, son, I hope you choose life over fear.”

Tears blurred my eyes. My father wasn’t a man of many words. He worked in silence, spoke little, and rarely showed emotion. But here, in this notebook, was everything he never said.

There were stories from his youth. Notes about the mistakes he made. Dreams he gave up. He had even written about the night I left home for university and how he cried after I closed the door.

I closed the book and sat still for a long time. The house that had once felt heavy now felt alive. It was as if he was still here, talking to me through his words.

That night, I stayed in his room. I couldn’t sleep, so I read the notebook again. At the very end, there was a small pocket. Inside it was a photograph of a small building—a library. On the back, he had written, “Someday, this house should hold stories again.”

When morning came, I made my decision. I didn’t sell the house.

Instead, I turned it into a small library. I filled the shelves with his books, added chairs for readers, and named it “The Ullah Reading Room.” It became a quiet place for people who loved stories and silence.

Months later, strangers started visiting. They left notes on the walls, thanking the “unknown man” whose words gave them hope.

Every time I walk in, I feel my father’s presence. The wooden chair still creaks when the wind blows. The photo frame still sits on the desk. And the notebook remains open to the last page, the one that says, “If my son reads this, I hope he chooses life over fear.”

Now, I understand what he meant.

Sometimes the people we lose keep teaching us, even after they’re gone.

And sometimes, a message from the dead is really a reminder to start living again.