The phone shouldn’t have worked — not after seven years, not after vanishing in the crash. But the screen flickered on. My reflection stared back at me for a moment, pale and shaking, before a single notification appeared. It was a message. From her. “I never left you. You just stopped listening.” I dropped into a chair, my legs too weak to hold me. Tears blurred my vision, memories flooding back — her laugh, the way she used to sing off-key, the last voicemail she left me that I’d deleted because it hurt too much to hear.
