I had kept her contact in my phone. I couldn’t delete it. I just… couldn’t.
And now I was staring at her name glowing on my screen at 3 in the morning.
My knees felt weak. I sat down heavily on the porch steps.
“That’s impossible,” I muttered.
My older daughter sat beside me, her hand gripping mine. “Dad… her number was probably reassigned.”
But even as she said it, her voice shook.
For a few fragile seconds, something inside me dared to believe something impossible. That maybe—just maybe—Helen had reached out. That maybe she wasn’t completely gone.
I hated myself for even thinking it.
After reassuring them both that they were safe, I drove home slowly, numb.
When I stepped into my dark house, the silence felt heavier than usual. Helen’s room was still untouched upstairs. I hadn’t found the strength to change it.
I sat at the kitchen table and stared at my phone.
Then it buzzed again.
I froze.
Another text.
From Helen’s number.
“I am still waiting. Where are you?”
My chest tightened so sharply it hurt. For a moment, I couldn’t move. My hands went cold.
I knew there had to be a logical explanation. There had to be.
But grief doesn’t care about logic.
I pressed “Call.”
The phone rang twice.
Then someone answered.
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