You don’t notice it at first.

Just a missed call. Then another. Then twelve.

Your phone buzzes nonstop, screen lighting up with Unknown—though somehow, you already know who it is. When you open your voicemail, the loading icon spins longer than usual, the audio crackling as if recorded on something old… damaged.

The first message plays.

Static. Breathing.

Then her voice—soft, intimate, unmistakable.

“Hey… it’s me.”

A pause. The sound warps, stretches.

“Come home.”

Your chest tightens. You delete it.

Another voicemail appears instantly.

This one is closer. Clearer.

“I know you’re scared,” Love whispers, like she’s right beside you. “But this isn’t real out there. Not like we were.”

The background noise rises—something between static and a heartbeat.

You try to block the number.

Your phone freezes.

A third voicemail auto-plays, her voice layered over itself now, echoing.

“Come home. Come home. Come—”

You slam the phone face-down.

Behind you, the lights flicker.

Your phone vibrates one last time.

A text.

Love: I left the door unlocked. I always do. You know that.