3:47

The phone wants me to delete it.

Storage full. Choose what matters.

And there it is in the list—

his name, his number,

the timestamp that proves he called

when the rest of the world was sleeping.

I haven't heard his voice in three years.

I know exactly what it sounds like.

The waveform on the screen—

those blue peaks and valleys,

the physical proof of sound

I've never let play through

to completion. Just the first

three seconds. His breath. His name.

I keep it like a photograph

I'm ashamed to have taken.

Everyone else deletes their old messages.

I keep this one and say nothing

about why I need it,

why I listen to three seconds

and stop before the words come,

before he tells me

whatever it was he called to say

at 3:47 in the morning.

The phone blinks red.

Delete something.

I move past his name.

Delete the rest instead.