Ethan Carlisle hadn’t touched his wife’s contact in months.

Emily had passed away six months ago after a sudden aneurysm. No warning, no goodbye—just gone. For weeks, Ethan would scroll through their old messages, listening to her saved voice notes just to hear her laugh again. Eventually, he stopped. He was starting to heal.

Until 3:03 AM.

That night, Ethan was jolted awake by a familiar chime. His phone buzzed once, then fell silent. Half-asleep, he glanced at the screen—
A new message from “Emily ❤️.”

The text simply read:
“I miss you.”

He froze.

The number hadn’t been reassigned. Her phone had been buried with her. He knew that. He had put it in the casket himself.

Thinking it was a sick prank, Ethan replied:
“Who is this?”

No response.

The next morning, he checked again. The message was gone. Not archived. Not deleted. Just—vanished. But the time stamp remained: 3:03 AM.

That night, Ethan had a dream. He was standing in their kitchen. Emily was there—alive. She looked exactly as she had the night before she died, wearing her favorite hoodie, sipping tea. She smiled and said, “Check the drawer.”

Ethan woke up in tears.

On impulse, he went to the kitchen and opened the bottom drawer—the one Emily used for “random stuff.” Tucked inside was a sealed envelope labeled “For Ethan (if I’m gone).”

Inside was a handwritten letter in Emily’s unmistakable scrawl. She had written it two weeks before her death, just in case. In it, she told him to keep living, to fall in love again, and to never doubt that she’d be watching over him.

Ethan cried for an hour.

He never got another message.

Some say grief plays tricks on us. Others believe love can cross dimensions.

Ethan? He believes it was her. Just one last text to say goodbye.