For years, I carried guilt like a second skin. I’d missed her final call the night she died. I told myself that maybe, just maybe, if I’d answered, things would have been different. That I could have saved her. But now, staring at those glowing words, I realized what she was trying to tell me. She didn’t blame me. She wanted me to forgive myself. I held the phone against my chest, and for the first time in seven years, I didn’t feel haunted. I felt… lighter. As if the weight of grief had shifted into something gentler. That night, I finally slept without nightmares. Because sometimes, the people we lose don’t really leave us. They just find other ways to remind us: Love doesn’t die. It waits. It whispers. And if you’re willing to listen — it answers.