A pause. Then the message appeared, word by word, as if typed by a ghost:
I stared at the screen until the cursor blinked again. I typed back everything I never said at the hospital — the apologies, the love, the stupid fight about the car.
Then my father died.
“You haven’t spoken in 1,247 days. I’ve been listening anyway. Type something here.”
My hands shook. I typed: “Who is this?”
The icon turned gray again.
Finally, I clicked it.
