After my grandmother passed away, her phone kept lighting up.
Pharmacy reminders. Spam calls. Missed delivery notices. Messages from people who didn’t know yet. Every vibration felt like a tiny resurrection, and every time the screen lit up, my chest tightened. I couldn’t bring myself to turn it off. Powering it down felt like erasing her twice—first the body, then the echo.
Weeks passed like that. The phone lived on my nightstand, face down, buzzing softly into the dark. One evening, exhausted and hollow, I finally picked it up and opened the last unread text.
It was from me.
Sent months earlier.
“Can I call you later?”
There was no reply beneath it. Just that one line, hanging there. I remembered the moment I sent it—rushing out the door, promising myself I’d call after dinner, after work, after life slowed down. It never did. She never replied.
I carried that guilt like a stone in my pocket until the day I went to her apartment to return the phone. The place still smelled like lavender cleaner and toast. I packed slowly, touching everything as if it might disappear if I didn’t.
That’s when I noticed the drafts folder.
There was only one message saved. No recipient. Just text.
“If you’re tired, don’t apologize. Rest is not failure.”
I sat on the edge of her bed and stared at the screen until the words blurred. I asked my mom about it later, my voice shaking.
She sighed softly. “After your grandfather died, your grandma started writing messages to herself,” she said. “Things she wished someone had told her. She kept them in drafts because she said, ‘Someday someone might need the words.’”
She never sent that message.
But I read it exactly when I needed it.
I finally turned her phone off that night. The screen went black, and the room felt quieter—but not emptier. The words stayed with me.
Months later, when my dad started losing his strength and apologizing for needing help, I wrote the sentence down and left it on his bedside table.
“If you’re tired, don’t apologize. Rest is not failure.”
He read it. He didn’t say anything. He just reached for my hand.
Some messages don’t need a sender or a reply.
They arrive when they’re meant to.
Note: This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. All images are for illustration purposes only.