The Text That Arrived a Year After He Died

It had been exactly one year since we buried my brother, Ayaan.

I still remember the chill in the air that day. It wasn’t just the weather — it was the kind of cold that wraps itself around your bones when something irreversible happens. He was 23. Full of life. Loved by everyone. Gone in an instant. A rainy night, a slippery road, and a speeding truck.

We were just two years apart. More like twins than siblings. We shared clothes, secrets, even our dreams. He wanted to be a filmmaker. I wanted to write. We used to plan our futures late at night, in whispered voices under the covers. He’d make movies. I’d write the scripts. It was supposed to be our life.

After the funeral, I couldn’t delete anything. Not his photos, not our chats, not even his number. It just felt wrong, like erasing him from my phone would erase him from the world. Sometimes, I’d open our WhatsApp thread and scroll through old messages. I’d replay his voice notes just to hear him say my name.

One year later, the grief hadn’t gone away — it had simply become quieter, like background noise. It followed me everywhere, but I had learned to live with it.

It was a Tuesday evening — nothing special. I had just gotten home from work, exhausted, and threw myself onto my bed. I was scrolling mindlessly through my phone when a notification popped up.

Ayaan - 7:04 PM

I froze.

At first, I thought maybe I had clicked on our old chat by mistake. But when I opened it, my stomach dropped.

There was a new message.

“I’m okay. Don’t worry.”

Five simple words. But they hit me like a punch in the chest.

I stared at the screen. Was someone playing a cruel joke? Had his number been given to someone else? Maybe a scammer?

Before I could process, another message arrived.

“Tell Amma I miss her laddoos.”

That’s when my hands started shaking.

No one — absolutely no one — knew about the laddoos.

It was our thing. Every Friday, our mother made her special sweet — round, warm, cardamom-scented laddoos. Ayaan loved them so much, he used to joke they had healing powers. He once told me, after a breakup, “Don’t worry, I had three laddoos. I’m basically invincible now.”

I hadn't told anyone about that inside joke. Not even Amma. It was ours.

I tried calling the number. It rang once, twice — then a robotic voice: “The number you have dialed is not in service.”

I sat frozen on my bed, phone still in my hand. I wasn’t sure if I was scared or comforted.

Was this real? Could it even be real?

I ran downstairs, phone in hand, heart pounding. I showed the messages to my parents. My mother broke down, sobbing into her dupatta. My father just stared at the screen, then whispered, “It’s him. He’s trying to tell us he’s okay.”

I didn’t sleep that night.

The next morning, I called the phone company. The woman on the line was polite, but confused. She told me that number had been deactivated almost 10 months ago. It had not been reassigned.

“That’s… strange,” she said quietly. “Are you sure the message came from that number?”

I was sure.

Three days passed.

Then, at exactly 3:17 AM, my phone buzzed.

One final message.

“I have to go now. I’ll always be with you. Look up.”

I didn’t know what it meant, but I found myself stepping outside, barefoot on the cold tiles of our balcony.

The sky was clear. Unusually so. The stars looked brighter than they had in a long time. And in that moment — standing under the quiet sky, holding my phone to my chest — I felt something I hadn’t felt in a whole year.

Peace.

I won’t pretend to have answers. I don’t know if ghosts are real, or if energy travels through old wires, or if the universe sometimes breaks its own rules for love.

All I know is that somehow, in some impossible way, my brother found a way to tell us he was okay.

And somehow, I finally believed it.