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 glowed, my chest tightened. I couldn’t bring myself to turn it off. Powering it down felt like erasing her twice. First her body, then her echo.
Weeks passed like that.
The phone stayed 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 message.
It was from me.
Sent months earlier.
Can I call you later?
There was no reply beneath it. Just that single 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 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 words.
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. Later, my voice shaking, I asked my mom about it.
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.
That night, I finally turned her phone off. The screen went dark, and the room grew quieter, but not emptier. The words stayed.
Months later, when my dad began 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 speak. He just reached for my hand.
Some messages don’t need a sender.
Or a reply.
They arrive when they’re meant to.
