When my wife, Anna, died suddenly at 27, the world turned gray. Mornings were heavy voids, but our four-year-old son, Noah, pulled me through. Nights, I’d reach for her empty side of the bed. Her phone stayed on the nightstand—a relic I couldn’t release. It hadn’t buzzed in months.
Until last night. A chime pierced the silence: “Trix, I’ll be home in 20 mins.” “Trix” was her private college nickname for me—no one else knew it. Heart pounding, hands shaking, I checked the thread, desperate for logic amid rising hope.
The truth hit hard: It was an unsent draft from the day she drove home—the night of the crash. Delayed years by some network glitch, it arrived like a ghost’s whisper.
Tears streamed as I clutched the phone. For the first time, grief felt like an embrace, not a haunt. Perhaps Anna’s spirit sent it, assuring me she watches over Noah and me. Love endures, bridging time via a belated message after farewell.
