She remembers the last call. How the cord had twisted tight around her fingers as she laughed, how his voice had warmed the receiver. "I’ll call tomorrow," he’d said. That was months ago. Now, the cord hangs limp. The numbers on the dial fade from too many idle touches. Sometimes, when the house is too quiet, she lifts the receiver just to hear the dial tone a flat, endless hum. Proof that the line is still alive. Outside, the wind rattles the screen door. The phone stays silent.
She wipes the dust off with her sleeve.
Waits.
