Scaramouche is gone. The world says it like a fact, like something you should accept. But your phone says otherwise.

His name still lingers on the screen, a single unheard voicemail waiting—his final words, forever sealed behind a trembling finger that can’t press play. What did he say? A goodbye? A promise? A secret meant only for you? The question gnaws at you, but the answer terrifies you more.

So the message stays untouched. Because as long as you never listen, a part of him still exists—still reaching for you from the other side.