The Last Voice Message

I wasn’t asleep. I never am anymore.

Night has become a quiet battlefield for me. Thoughts line up like soldiers, memories attack without warning, and silence feels heavier than noise. So when the screen lit up, I stared at it for a long moment, unsure whether to breathe or panic.

Unknown Number.

I almost ignored it.

Almost.

Something in my chest tightened, the way it does right before bad news. I answered.

“Hello?”

At first, there was only static. A soft crackle, like wind brushing against old wires.

Then a voice.

Low. Familiar.

“Don’t hang up.”

My heart dropped.

It couldn’t be. My fingers went cold. My throat dried.

“Who is this?” I whispered.

A pause.

Then softly, carefully:

“It’s me.”

The world tilted.

It sounded exactly like him.

My brother.

He had been gone for eleven months.

Car accident. Rain-slick highway. A late-night drive home. One careless second that erased a lifetime.

I stood up so fast my chair fell backward.

“This isn’t funny,” I said, forcing strength into my voice. “Whoever you are, stop.”

“I know you still keep my jacket,” the voice replied.

“The brown one. You tell people you might donate it, but you never do.”

My knees buckled.

No one knew that.

“I know you blame yourself,” he continued.

“You think if you had called me that night, I wouldn’t have driven so fast.”

Tears blurred my vision.

“Stop,” I said again, weaker this time.

“I also know you haven’t opened Mom’s last message. It’s still sitting there, unread.”

I collapsed onto the floor.

Because that was true too.

My phone slipped from my hand, but the speaker stayed on.

“Listen to me,” he said. “I don’t have long.”

“What do you mean?” I sobbed.

“There’s a place between things,” he explained.

“Between memory and forgetting. Between here and wherever we go next. Sometimes… very rarely… a line opens.”

I pressed the phone to my chest.

“I just wanted to tell you a few things.”

The room felt colder.

“You did enough,” he said gently.

“You were a good brother. You showed up. You cared. That matters more than you know.”

I tried to speak, but only broken sounds came out.

“Tell Dad to stop pretending he’s okay,” he went on.

“Tell Mom her voice still finds me in my dreams. And you…”

His voice softened.

“…you need to live again.”

“I don’t know how,” I whispered.

“Yes, you do,” he said.

“You just forgot.”

Silence stretched between us.

Then he laughed quietly.

“You still hate mornings, don’t you?”

Despite everything, I smiled through tears.

“Yeah,” I said. “Some things never change.”

“Some things do,” he replied.

“Some things do,” he replied.

The static returned, louder now.

“I have to go.”

“No,” I said desperately. “Please don’t.”

“Hey,” he said.

“You don’t need me on the other end of a phone line. I’m already with you. In every memory. Every stupid joke. Every quiet moment.”

My chest felt like it was breaking open.

“I love you,” I whispered.

“I know,” he said.

The call ended.

I sat there on the floor for a long time, holding a silent phone.

Later that morning, I finally opened Mom’s message.

It was a voice note.

Her words were simple:

“I had a dream about him last night. He said you’d be okay.”

I stepped outside.

The sky was pale blue, the air fresh with early morning calm. For the first time in months, I breathed deeply.

Some connections don’t disappear.

They just change form.

And sometimes, when the world is quiet enough, love finds a way to call back.