The Calls From My Old Number

The relief of getting a new phone number was immediate.

For months, Hamza had been receiving strange late-night calls. No voice. No breathing. Just silence — heavy, patient silence that felt less like a prank and more like someone listening carefully.

Sometimes the calls lasted ten seconds.

Sometimes minutes.

Sometimes until he gathered the courage to hang up.

He tried everything: blocking, airplane mode, turning the phone off at night. The calls always returned.

So he changed the number.

New SIM. New contacts. No one except his family had it.

The first night was peaceful.

For the first time in weeks, he slept through the dark without waking at every vibration. Morning sunlight felt unfamiliar — like returning from a long illness.

He laughed at himself. “It was just spam,” he muttered.

The second night was quiet too.

The third night, at 2:26 a.m., his phone rang.

Unknown number.

He stared at it, annoyed but calm. Probably someone dialing wrong.

He answered.

Silence.

He frowned. “Hello?”

Nothing.

He ended the call and blocked the number.

The phone rang again immediately.

This time his chest tightened.

The number wasn’t unknown.

It was his old number.

He felt his stomach drop.

“That’s impossible,” he whispered.

He answered slowly.

Soft static filled the speaker — not random noise, but rhythmic, like distant wind moving through a narrow hallway.

Then a faint sound.

Breathing.

His breathing.

He pulled the phone away from his ear.

The breathing continued from the speaker, perfectly matching his inhale and exhale.

He held his breath.

The sound stopped.

His fingers trembled.

“Who is this?” he asked.

For the first time, a voice came.

Not distorted.

Not robotic.

Just quiet.

“You left me.”

The call ended.

Hamza didn’t sleep.

Morning couldn’t come fast enough. He called the telecom provider, trying to confirm the number had been reassigned.

“It hasn’t,” the operator said. “The number is inactive.”

“Then how—”

“No outgoing activity exists from it.”

He laughed nervously. “Right… okay.”

That night, he kept the lights on.

At 2:26 a.m., the phone vibrated again.

Old number.

He didn’t want to answer.

But fear of not knowing was worse.

He picked up.

This time there was background noise — faint traffic, distant footsteps, a passing car.

Familiar sounds.

Too familiar.

His eyes slowly turned toward his apartment window.

The street outside.

Empty.

The voice spoke again.

“I’m still here.”

“Where?” Hamza whispered.

A pause.

“Outside.”

He rushed to the window and pulled the curtain aside.

Nothing.

Then he noticed the audio delay — the traffic noise in the call happened three seconds before the street remained silent.

It wasn’t outside.

It was earlier.

The call was coming from the past.

His heart pounded violently. “What do you want?”

Another pause.

Then softly:

“Don’t go tomorrow.”

The line died.

Hamza didn’t understand — until morning.

On his way to work, he took his usual bus.

Halfway through the ride, traffic halted ahead. People began murmuring.

An accident.

A truck had crushed a car at the intersection — the exact bus he normally took when he left five minutes earlier than usual.

Cold spread through him.

He returned home shaken.

That night, he waited.

2:26 a.m.

The phone rang.

He answered instantly.

His own voice screamed through the speaker.

Not speaking — screaming.

Metal bending. Glass shattering. People shouting.

The accident.

Then the whisper returned.

“I tried to stop you last time.”

Hamza’s hands went numb. “Last time?”

“You didn’t change the number.”

His knees weakened.

“You died.”

The room felt unreal.

“So… you’re me?”

“Yes.”

Silence stretched.

Hamza struggled to breathe. “Why can I hear you?”

“Because this time,” the voice said gently, “you listened.”

Tears filled his eyes.

“Does it stop?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“When?”

A long pause.

Then the quiet reply:

“When I no longer need to warn you.”

The call ended.

His phone never rang at 2:26 again.

But sometimes, late at night, Hamza still wakes up — just before danger happens.

He doesn’t know why.

Only that somewhere, in a version of yesterday that never survived…

He is still trying to save himself.