I froze when I heard his ringtone — the one I’d assigned just for him. That familiar melody sliced through the silence like a knife. My hands trembled as I pulled the phone from my purse. The caller ID read: “My Love ” — the contact name I had given him.
Heart racing, I answered.
“Hello?” I said, voice barely a whisper.
For a moment, all I could hear was static. Then, a low voice — familiar, impossibly so — spoke.
“Why are you coming here?”
I couldn’t breathe.
“Who is this?” I asked, though I already knew. I knew that voice. I’d listened to it whisper secrets in the dark, laugh in the kitchen, cry in the hospital room.
There was a pause. Then:
“You weren’t supposed to know. Not yet.”
The line went dead.
I pulled over. I couldn’t drive like this. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. A hundred thoughts swirled through my mind — was someone using his card? Had he faked his death? Was this a cruel prank?
But deep down, a part of me already understood: something was very wrong — and I wasn’t just chasing ghosts.
I made it to the hotel fifteen minutes later.
The lobby was quiet. I asked the front desk about the charge, pretending I was his assistant. The clerk hesitated, but eventually gave in.
“Room 308,” she said.
I climbed the stairs. My heart pounded louder with every step. When I reached the door, I knocked.
Silence.
Then, slowly, it creaked open — on its own.
Inside was dim. The air smelled faintly of his cologne.
And on the table… was a photo of us — one I’d never seen before.
