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Daniel’s world shatters when his wife, Lila, dies suddenly from an undiagnosed heart condition. Grief-stricken and paralyzed by loss, he retreats into the silence of their empty apartment, surrounded by the ghost of her presence—her untouched coffee cup, her half-read books, the voicemail he plays on loop just to hear her voice.

As months pass, Daniel’s isolation deepens. His sister, Claire, begs him to rejoin the living, but he refuses, clinging to the pain because it’s the last thing tying him to Lila. When he finally musters the strength to sort through her belongings, he uncovers letters from her estranged father—a man she spent years searching for, only to find his grave. The discovery forces Daniel to confront his own regrets: the conversations they never had, the love he took for granted, the future they’ll never share.

Haunted by memories and suffocated by solitude, Daniel must decide whether to drown in the past or find a way to carry Lila with him into a life he never wanted to live without her.

The Weight of Absence

The hospital had called it a "sudden cardiac event."

A sterile phrase for something so violent. So final.

Daniel remembered the phone ringing at 3:17 a.m., the way his heart had lurched at the sight of Unknown Caller flashing on the screen. He remembered the drive to the hospital, the way his hands had gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. He remembered the fluorescent lights in the waiting room, the doctor's too-calm voice, the way the word "gone" had echoed in his skull like a gunshot.

But most of all, he remembered the silence afterward. The way the world had kept moving while his had stopped.

Now, months later, he sat on the edge of the bed—their bed—and scrolled through his phone. Her name was still there in his contacts, right between "Claire (Sis)" and "Mom." He knew what would happen if he pressed it. Knew the robotic voice that would tell him the number was no longer in service.

Instead of calling, he opened his voicemail. There was only one saved message.

Her voice. Bright. Warm. Alive.

"Just checking in. Don't forget to eat something today, okay? Love you."

Outside, life went on. Cars honked. Neighbors argued. The mailman trudged up the steps. But in this room, time had folded in on itself, collapsing into the space between her last words and the silence that followed.

He curled his fingers around the phone, pressing it against his chest as if he could fuse her voice into his ribs, brand it into his skin.

And one day, even this would fade.

The Voicemail