EMBER / A SHORT PIECE

Unheard

Three weeks after the funeral, you finally open her phone.

Call history. Messages. The settings menu she never learned to change, still asking in bright blue whether she'd like to update now or remind her tomorrow.

Then: Voicemail (1), unplayed, dated the day before.

“Hi sweetheart, it's just me. I made too much soup again — come by if you're hungry. No rush. Love you.”

Thirty-one seconds. Nothing was wrong. Nothing needed saying.

Not for the words this time. For the thirty-one seconds where her voice still moves through the air like it used to, like nothing had happened yet.

The pause before “sweetheart” lasts exactly as long as you remember it lasting.

Tap to listen.