My best friend perished in a vehicle crash 7 years ago. No one found her phone. A SMS from her number arrived last night.
A photo of us giggling during her 16th birthday. I typed “Who is this?” We saw 3 dots. I froze when told, “Check your”
Looking at the message, my palms trembled.
“Check your…” I waited but got nothing. Typing halted. I threw my locked phone on the bed like it was burning me.
Unable to sleep. My imagination raced through various possibilities, including a nasty joke, swindle, or other possibilities. I couldn’t shake my gut instinct.
Nobody had that photo online. She took it with her phone, so no one else had it. Only two of us that day.
At 2:34 AM, curiosity won. I grabbed my phone again. The message remained.
I enlarged the shot. The mirror behind us showed a reflection I hadn’t observed before. A date.
Her bedroom mirror contained a sticky note. Her handwriting read: “July 5 – library box.”
Catching my breath. July 5 was following week.
In high school, “library box” was our secret code. We kept small notes in a free community library stand at Elm and Greystone. We termed it a “time capsule.” We never discovered it, nor did our parents.
I hadn’t visited in years. Now I had to return. Next morning, I skipped work.
I drove straight to the old area and parked near the white-painted wooden stand. Paint was flaking. Vintage cookbooks and romance romances filled the interior.
I examined every crevice. I saw an envelope behind a thick gardening magazine. Pale blue.
We used it. Front: my name. My heart thumps.
Hands shaking, I opened it. A folded note and a tiny plastic charm—her beloved dolphin keychain, always on her backpack—were inside. Her penmanship was clear on the note.
“You’re reading this, so something happened. Last night’s dream was horrible. Extremely terrible.
Dreamed I wouldn’t survive summer. Please don’t stress out, but I wanted to give you this in case. Please preserve my memory.
Please keep laughing.”
Sitting on the curb, I was stunned. Her written fantasy was never shared to me. As for the dolphin keychain… Thought it was lost in the crash.
I returned the message to the envelope, locked it in the glovebox, and drove home. The next couple days, I checked my phone. Nothing.
Stop texting. July 5 arrived. I got another SMS that night.
Same number. Did you find it? I remained silent.
I had a racing heart. Another reply said, “I knew you would.”
Looking at the television, tears came. The person in question knew too much.
I left one more thing. You deserve honesty. Visit the cabin.
The attic.”
A cabin. She and her family owned a modest Lake Willow cabin. We had spent summers there swimming, singing, and chasing fireflies.
After the accident, her parents sold it, and I hadn’t thought about it in years. I checked the listing. New owners.
The place became an Airbnb by chance. Weekend availability. Booked it.
Arriving outside the wooden porch, everything was so familiar it hurt. Memories flooded in as I walked slowly. Few changes were made by the new owners.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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