For a year, Lauren sends heartfelt messages to her late father’s phone, waiting for a response. What begins as a frightening shock transforms into something unexpected: a bond between two strangers… Maybe some messages make their way home.

Grief is a curious phenomenon.

It doesn’t depart abruptly. It lingers between times, in the dead silence of a once-full and bright house. And it remains in the instinct to summon someone who is no longer present.

For me, sadness resided in my phone.

It lives in that small item that used to bring me delight but now just brings me anguish.

When my mother died, I was eleven, and Dad became my entire universe. He was the type of man who demonstrated affection in subtle and consistent ways. He showed his affection in small ways, like Mickey Mouse-shaped pancakes, gas station slushies after a long day, and the peaceful refuge of our Sunday morning fishing excursions.

He also showed affection in overt ways, such as inviting all of my friends over for a pool party on the anniversary of my mother’s passing.

“Dad, you don’t have to do this,” I replied while watching him cook burger patties from scratch.

“I do, Lo,” he said, using my nickname. He always believed that ‘Lauren’ was too mature for me and that I’d grow into my name as I got older.

“I need it as much as you do, love,” he remarked, adding a generous quantity of black pepper to the minced meat. “Sometimes we get too melancholy on this day, yet Mom was far from sad. “She made the sun shine, didn’t she?”

She did. Of course she did. She was the sun itself.

“So,” my father went on, “we have to live like the sun is shining just for us.”

After that, we decided to live and tried not to let our sadness weigh us down too much. However, we allowed the sadness to permeate those fishing trips.

“Out here, kiddo,” he’d always remark, reeling in his line, “there’s just us and the fish.” There are no problems, no outside world; just you, myself, and the sea.”

Even now, I could hear his voice: crisp and warm, like the sun rising over the pier.

And then, a little over a year ago, a stroke stole him away from me.

It happened suddenly. Cruel. Unfair.

One day, I walked to the fishing dock and sat on the grass. I couldn’t figure out how I had gotten here. I was an orphan. I wanted nothing more than to be with my parents.

I sat for a long time, eating a slice of apple pie, which had also been part of our fishing ritual.

In that moment, in that quiet… I began texting my father’s number.

It was just as I used to call Dad on my way home from school. Just as I used to when I needed help or simply missed hearing his awful dad jokes.

You wouldn’t believe how awful my roommate cooks. Last night, she accidentally set fire to the pasta. I mean, seriously!

I earned my first B in college, Dad. I know you would say, ‘B for better next time,’ right? I truly miss your dumb jokes.

When I arrived at our location today, a gentleman tried to mansplain fishing to me. I showed him the image of us with the huge bass from 2016. You should’ve seen his face. It was priceless.

It was dumb. The entire situation made me feel dumb. Here I was, messaging a man who had disconnected his phone number from its previous owner. But it made me feel like he was still present. Maybe if I talked into the abyss, a part of him might hear me.

Then, on the anniversary of his death, while I waited in the clinic’s waiting room, I sent three texts that I never expected to receive.

Dad, I really miss you.

It has been a year since your death, and I still can’t stop writing to you. I know that sounds ridiculous, but it seems like you are still listening to me.

My heart was aching, and I wanted to cry for hours. Where was the joy? When would the world be brighter again? When would the anguish end?

A moment has gone. It was a prolonged, suffocating moment.

And suddenly my phone beeped, almost knocking me off my chair.

You are not insane. I suppose I’ve stopped breathing. My stomach twisted in a way that was neither fearful nor hopeful, but a bizarre, impossible combination of both. My heart pounded loudly in my ears.

I nearly vomited it up.

Dad???

Right then, the nurse shouted my name.

“Lauren! Come on, honey; it’s your turn.

I jerked up, almost dropping my phone, my heart pounding in my chest. As I followed her inside, the clinic smelled like antiseptic, and the corridors were overly clean. When the doctor walked in, I scarcely recognized his presence.

“Lauren,” he said, smiling.

He was middle-aged, with kind eyes and a friendly grin. I nodded numbly as he went through my normal check-up, my mind racing. My body felt like it was floating, and I wasn’t sure whether I had hallucinated the entire time.

How might my dad respond to a text message? Is Heaven doing that these days? Had I just seen a miracle? Had Dad somehow, miraculously, reached out to me?

No way. I was losing my mind. That has to be it. Grief appeared to have taken over everything.

The doctor excused himself to get some equipment.

“Sorry, Lauren,” he said. “I don’t know why the nurse didn’t bring in the equipment. Give me a second; I need to check your blood pressure.

Alone, my fingers hesitated over the phone. I needed to know. I simply had to.

Are you alive, Dad?

A gentle ping resonated across the room. I looked up to see the doctor’s phone lighted up on his desk. It couldn’t be a coincidence, right?

“Just go sneak-peek it, Lauren,” I mumbled.

And there it was! My message appeared on his screen. The world appeared to swirl as my stomach leaped around my body.

I sent a stream of strange emoticons to my father’s phone. Seconds later, they appeared on the doctor’s phone.

I rushed from the clinic as quickly as I could.

My breath came out in harsh, ragged gasps as I ran down the corridor. The walls blurred as dread gripped my throat. Who was he? Wasn’t he a doctor? Was he a stalker? Or is someone playing a nasty joke? Had this man been monitoring me all along?

Outside, I braced my hands on my knees and leaned against the wall for support. I attempted to steady myself, but the sickness persisted.

A few hours later, as I returned to my apartment and clung tightly to my bed, my phone rang.

I almost dismissed it, but…

I apologize for not responding earlier. I was at work. Listen, I apologize, but I am not your father. I believe your father once owned this phone number, which I recently received. I’m devastated for your loss.

I read all of your messages. At first, I wasn’t sure what to do. But then I began looking forward to them. You reminded me that I was not alone. I lost my daughter four years ago. Natalie. She used to text her mother and me about everything when she was in college, too.

I did not aim to scare or hurt you. I simply wanted you to know you are not insane. And you are not alone. Your father has a lovely and caring daughter with a wonderful spirit. But I can see your anguish.

Please contact me if you need anything at any moment.

My eyesight clouded. A previously unnoticed tightness in my chest eased. This man had not intended to injure me. It was really simply a coincidence. I chose to respond.

You terrified me. Oh, gosh.

I understand! I apologize! I had a patient and was unable to use my phone.

I know, I texted. Her name was Lauren, and you were ready to take her blood pressure.

There was quiet. There were no three dots to indicate that he was responding.

How do you know this? Now I’m uneasy!
You terrified me. Oh, gosh.

I laughed to myself.

I hurried out because it was my turn. I dashed out since I noticed my texts appearing on your phone. It terrified me, and I panicked.

There was another pause. Then my phone rang.

His voice was solid yet had a raw, unfiltered quality.

“I never meant for you to find out this way,” he told me. “But I believe fate had another plan. I was unsure if I wanted you to find out in the first place.”

And then we started conversing. We talked about my father, his daughter, and sadness. We discussed grief and the peculiar ways in which the cosmos seems to draw individuals together.

At the end of the call, I felt lighter. It seemed like a portion of my burden had been shared with someone who had experienced loss.

“Um, Lauren,” he responded. “You should probably come back in for us to finish your check-up.”

I laughed.

“I will,” I agreed. “Thank you, Henry, for allowing me to talk about my father. I am on the phone right now, and I’m going through all of those texts.”

“Anytime, kiddo,” he laughed sweetly. “But I want to hear how your roommate set fire to pasta.” That was one of the best texts I have ever received.”

We agreed to meet at a diner the following week.

He told me, “Lauren, we should be doing your check-up, not eating greasy food.”

“Henry, I need a pick-me-up,” I joked. “You may schedule me before my finals. In around a week.”

“Fine,” he agreed. “Order now. “My treat.”

We sat there for hours, drinking milkshakes, eating fries, and finishing off with a slice of apple pie.

Suddenly, color returned to my life. I did not feel so alone. My heart still grieved for my parents, but Henry had begun to ease some of that need. He told me about his kid and how much she enjoyed hamburgers.

“Seriously, Lo,” he stated. “Nat would probably have had no problem selling her soul for a good burger.”

Lastly, he committed to introducing me to his wife. “Margot will adore you,” he explained simply.

And just like that, pleasure returned to my life.

We have dramatized this work for creative reasons, based on actual events and persons. To protect privacy and enhance the story, the author has altered names, personalities, and facts. Any similarity to genuine people, alive or deceased, or actual events is entirely coincidental and was not intended by the author.

The author and publisher are not liable for misinterpretation since they do not verify events or characters. The characters, not the author or publisher, express any opinions in this tale, which they offer “as is.”