The voice I haven’t heard in years

It had been seven years, four months, and twenty-three days since I last heard that voice. It wasn’t just any voice; it was the voice of my mother, the woman who had shaped my world, guided my steps, and been my first source of love. Losing her was like losing a part of myself, a part that had once felt whole and unshakable.

When I first got the news, I couldn’t believe it. How could someone so full of life, so vibrant, be taken away so suddenly? But time doesn’t care about our pain. It marches on, indifferent to our suffering, and so life continued without her. I learned to walk through the days with a silence that felt unnatural, like there was a missing piece of the puzzle I could never find again.

There were moments, of course, when I would think I heard her. A fleeting whisper in the wind, the soft hum of a melody on the radio, a smell that reminded me of her favorite perfume. But each time, I would dismiss it as wishful thinking. The pain was still too fresh, too raw, to believe that her presence could ever come back.

Then, one evening, it happened.

I had just finished work and was walking back to my apartment, the streets bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun. The air had that crispness to it, the kind that signals the changing of seasons. As I approached my door, I felt something strange. A quiet, almost imperceptible hum in the air around me. I stopped for a moment, my hand resting on the doorknob. My heart skipped a beat. There was no logical explanation, but I swore I heard it.

The voice.

It was soft, just above a whisper, but unmistakable. It was her voice.

"Are you okay, my dear?"

I froze. My breath caught in my throat. I turned slowly, scanning the empty street behind me. No one was there. Just the wind rustling through the trees. But it didn’t matter. The voice was real. In that instant, I knew she had spoken to me. I hadn’t imagined it. It was as though she had reached through the veil of time and space, finding a way to remind me that she was still with me in some way. That she was still guiding me.

I stood there for what felt like an eternity, my hands trembling as I tried to process what had just happened. My mind was a whirlwind of emotions—confusion, wonder, disbelief. Could this really be happening? Could a person’s love transcend death like that?

I finally entered my apartment, but her voice lingered in the air, like a melody that you can’t quite shake off. I found myself sitting on the couch, staring blankly at the walls, lost in thought. The silence of the room felt heavier now, like something had shifted, but I couldn’t tell what. My mother had always known how to fill the silence with warmth and comfort. Now, her voice, though just a fleeting moment, had filled it again.

As the days passed, I began to notice something extraordinary. Her voice didn’t vanish. It didn’t fade away with time like I thought it would. It kept coming back, in moments that I least expected. When I was cooking, I would hear her laugh in the next room. When I walked through the park, I could almost feel her hand on my shoulder, reassuring me that everything would be alright.

The voice wasn’t just a memory anymore. It was something more. A presence that never truly left.

I came to realize that the voice I hadn’t heard in years wasn’t gone. It wasn’t lost to me. It was within me all along, just waiting for me to listen again. My mother’s love, her words, her guidance—they hadn’t disappeared. They had simply changed form, moving from the physical world to something deeper, more profound.

And now, I hear her every day, in the smallest moments. I hear her when I face a challenge, when I’m unsure of myself, when I need comfort. The voice that once echoed in my childhood home now speaks from within me, reminding me that love never truly ends. It just transforms. It transcends time and space.

That voice is with me forever.

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