After my wife Kate’s death, I often called her number to hear her on the answering machine.
Once, the machine cut off, and I distinctly heard her say, “What are you doing? No!” before the call ended. Convinced it was her, I began investigating.
It was a normal Sunday, and I sat in “Paprika,” a small café in the city’s heart.
The area was full of life, and the smell of coffee and pastries filled the air.
People laughed and talked. The baristas moved smoothly, always smiling as they worked, and music played softly in the background. But I felt alone.
This café was special to Kate and me.
We came here every weekend for seven years. Without her, everything felt different. The warmth didn’t reach me.
Every corner reminded me of her. Our first date, her birthdays, her favorite cinnamon roll.
I missed Kate. I missed her laugh, her touch, and her smile, so I dialed her number again, hoping to hear her on the answering machine.
“Hi, you’ve reached Kate…” Her cheerful voice brought both comfort and pain.
I’d called many times since she passed. It was how I remembered her.
I thought about the day I proposed, our wedding, and all the times she supported me. Kate’s funeral was a few days ago.
It was incredibly hard.
The day was gray and cold. Empty. The ceremony passed in a blur,
and everyone’s words of comfort sounded distant.
I couldn’t believe my wife, the love of my life, was gone.
Her death was a shock, too. She died after her car fell into a canyon, and the doctors couldn’t do anything. “She’s gone,” they said.
Those words stayed with me.
But I still had people who loved me. After Kate’s death, her twin sister, Amanda, and her husband, Kyle, were my only family.
Amanda was sick and used a wheelchair. She only had a few years left.
Still, she told me, “We’ll get through this together,
Peter.” Kyle was supportive too. “We’re here for you,” he said, as we shared our grief, finding solace in the nice memories we all had of Kate.
Lost in thought at that café, I didn’t even feel someone approaching me until a gentle tap nudged my shoulder. It was Carmen, a relative of Kate’s.
I’d only met her briefly at our wedding.
She was glad to see me, but I quickly realized she had no idea what had happened to Kate. “What happened?
Why are you so sad?” Carmen asked, and I told her about the accident. She was shocked.
“Oh, Peter, I had no idea. That’s why she hasn’t been answering me…”
She went on to explain that she had been trying to contact Kate, unaware of her new phone number, and thus had resorted to calling the old number at their family country house.
“But I guess no one has been living there for a long time, only Kate’s answering machine was there,” she added, a sad note in her voice. “Kate’s voice is on the answering machine?”
I asked.
Carmen said yes and gave me the number. “I’m so sorry, Peter,” she said after a few more minutes and left the café. Once I was alone, I called the number, eager to hear another version of her message.
Kate’s voice on the answering machine made me smile, so I called again.
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