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<\/figure>\n\n\n\nI don\u2019t know why, but that question hit harder than anything else could have. Not anger. Not blame. Just doubt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
As if I had already disappeared long ago.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My fingers trembled over the keys. I didn\u2019t know what to write. \u201cYes\u201d felt too small. An explanation felt impossible. An apology\u2026 too late, maybe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In the end, I typed:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYes. I\u2019m still here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The three dots appeared almost instantly this time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then another message:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI didn\u2019t know if this number still worked.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Another pause.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI thought you forgot about me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I let out a breath that felt like it had been trapped in my chest for years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Forgot him?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
If only it had been that simple.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stared at the screen, and for the first time that day, my eyes filled with tears. Not the quiet kind that come and go, but the kind that shake something loose deep inside you.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI never forgot,\u201d I wrote back. \u201cNot for a single day.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The reply didn\u2019t come right away this time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The silence returned, but it felt different now. Not empty \u2014 just waiting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Outside, the light had started to fade. The street looked softer, quieter. I noticed things I hadn\u2019t earlier \u2014 the way the shadows stretched, the way people slowed down as evening approached.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My phone buzzed again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI was angry,\u201d Eliot wrote. \u201cFor a long time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I nodded, even though he couldn\u2019t see me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou had a right to be,\u201d I answered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Another pause.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI have a daughter now.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That one broke me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A granddaughter. A life I had never seen, never held, never even known about.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat\u2019s her name?\u201d I asked, my vision blurring.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cLena.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I whispered it out loud. Lena.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For a moment, I imagined her \u2014 small, curious, maybe with his eyes. Maybe laughing the way he used to.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI wish you could meet her,\u201d he added.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My hands tightened around the phone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI would like that,\u201d I wrote slowly. \u201cMore than anything.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The three dots appeared again. Stayed longer this time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then finally:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMaybe it\u2019s not too late.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I read that line over and over again, as if it might disappear if I blinked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not too late.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At 97, those words don\u2019t come often.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I looked at the half-eaten cake, the single candle melted into wax, the quiet little room that had felt so empty just hours before.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And for the first time in years, it didn\u2019t feel like the end of something.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It felt like the beginning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I picked up the phone again, steadier now, and typed:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThank you for answering.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A moment later, it buzzed once more.<\/p>\n\n\n\n